A Crucial Decision
by Gwedhiel
Summary: *canonical gap-filler* Elrond seeks out Círdan to find out why the Shipwright decided to give Gandalf the Elven Ring Narya. After all, the Three Rings were made for the Elven race, so by what reason should a Maia possess it? Will Elrond believe what happened? *full summary inside*
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** Canonical gap-filler. Elrond seeks out Círdan to find out why the Shipwright had decided to give Gandalf the Elven Ring Narya. After all, the Three Rings were made for the Elven race, so by what reason should a Maia possess it? Will Elrond believe what happened?

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Tolkien's marvelous world. I only own the character Ëarhín and the _Fëagaer. _I also do not own the uploaded "book cover" for this particular story. It is owned by "celebrusc" on tumblr and I have been given said artist's permission to use it.

**All of my sources for all canonical facts, should you question their accuracy, are listed at the end of the story.**

**Crossover explanation:** For many chapters, I listed this story as a crossover between LotR and the Silmarillion for a very simple reason. I publish in LotR mostly in the hope of educating a pretty large Tolkien-dead audience with a canonical fact here and there, but there's so many details from the Silmarillion itself that, rightly, this story should only be categorized there. And to boot, this actual event of passing on Narya takes place in the Silm. anyway. So there you have it, just to stop any confusion.  
>But here lies the biggest reason for my making it a crossover with the Silm: the name "Círdan" isn't even in the list of names for the LotR fandom! Sure, Gil-galad's name is in there when the king doesn't even have any place or dialogue in LotR, whereas Círdan does (RotK). That made me so frustrated. Anyway, that's the main reason; I needed his name...:) But now, after learning fully of what the "rules" are for crossovers, I elected just to publish it in the Silm.<p>

**A/N:** I can't believe how long this chapter ended up becoming! What I put for the genre, know that I'm using them lightly. I just don't know what else to call this. Anyway, this story, I guess, can be considered as a possible gap filler. I don't know – it's up to you to decide. This piece does contain a flashback and, like one of my others, it will be noticeably divided by a large – not small – large marker. Because the flashback is so large I didn't want it to be distracting by being all in italics. So, a large dividing marker marks the start and end of it. Though the goal of this story is to answer the question stated in the summary, of course, this fictional piece is also intended to be an exploration of Círdan's character. If you want to read what Tolkien wrote about him and how he's such a magnificent character, here you go. Just be aware that I'm not just going to come out and, boom, answer the question. That could be done in my bio. There's a story behind getting the answer so it has to build up. What exactly possessed Círdan to give up Narya the Great? Let's find out. Oh yeah, and let your imagination run free while reading this. If I took the time to describe everything the exact way I imagine it myself, we'd never get to the point of this story. And thank you, **Tori of Lorien**, for your help!

One last thing – I know that the people of Mithlond are rightfully called the Grey-elves. But, for the sake of making it less confusing, I'll be referring to them as that and also as the Sea-elves because the Grey-elves are not only in reference to Círdan's people, but also other Sindar such as Celeborn. So, to narrow it down, I'll be using both names. Hope you don't mind. Enjoy the story!

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><p>I just remembered to include this at the last minute. They're just a couple of sailing terms that will be used in the story that you might want to familiarize yourself with first. I didn't think of mentioning them until I remembered how confusing it was for me to get them all straight all those years ago when I first learned them. If you already know them, awesome! You get a cookie. :) If there are any others I didn't mention or something you don't understand, feel free to PM me.<p>

port/starboard = left side of the ship/right side of the ship  
>bowprow = front of the ship  
>stern = rear of the ship (if someone says they're turning astern, it means their turning the ship around in the opposite direction)<br>mast = upright spar of the ship that carries the sails  
>masthead = top of the mast<br>bulwark = section of the ship's side above the deck  
>gunwale = "railing" along the top section of the bulwark<br>hull = body of the ship  
>keel = spine of the ship<br>tiller = handle for the steering oar  
>telltale = the pennant that indicates the wind's direction<br>reef = to bundle parts of the sail in against the yardarm to reduce the sail area  
>trim = adjusting the sail to a certain angle to insure efficient sailing<br>stay (back/fore) = the heavy ropes that support the mast (back/front, pretty obvious, right?)  
>yardarm = a wooden pole, or spar, that carries the sail when hoisted up the mast<p>

I hope you enjoy the story! I certainly had fun writing it. Happy reading!

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><p>"My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me." ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<p>

**Chapter 1**

_Mithlond, 1001 TA_

Glorfindel, swaying to the gentle trot of his mare, gave a sly smile. "You are doing it again."

Elrond's mind snapped back to the present, hearing the amusement in his Seneschal's voice. And then he gave a wan smile, shaking his head in self-admonishment. "I cannot help it and you know it," he said, though he couldn't find it in himself to sound angry or irritated, for far too content he was. "Ever since I was little this sensation has always persuaded me to drop my guard and become utterly relaxed."

Glorfindel chuckled. "How sweet," he teased. "You are letting your inner child break through for all to see." Elrond sent a glare to him and he chuckled again. "You also make an easy target to tease when you are like this." He saw Elrond open his mouth, no doubt to quickly refute that statement and prove it false, and he gestured lightheartedly to let it drop. "I know, Elrond," he said, equal content obviously present in him as well. "You need not explain it to me. Out of all the long years I have lived, in both of my lives, I have never become used to the sensation you speak of, or of how it lifts my spirit each time."

Elrond unconsciously nodded in agreement. He couldn't imagine anybody not being able to agree to that. And, once again, his mind started to drift off. He didn't necessarily think of anything. He simply allowed the bliss to seep through his being and become fully relaxed again, teasing Elda beside him or not. He relaxed on the back of his horse, tilted his head towards the sky, enjoying the feeling of the warmth of the Sun, as he took a deep breath. His sense of smell was overwhelmed with the power of salt in the air. But it was a small sense that he could quickly dismiss at the sight of what lay before them.

Mithlond was a Haven unimagined. He and Glorfindel had just passed through the inland homes of a large part of Mithlond's population. They were comforting shelters – cottages, some great and some small, but each quite easily represented the utter contentment the Sea-elves possessed. And now they were passing through Círdan's open gates – there was no immediate threat, after all – all the while making sure to rein in their mares' trot down to a slow walk. There was a constant stream of traffic moving in and out through the gates, people carrying bundles on their backs or in carts, taking them to their various homes before settling for the evening. But they passed through, returning the brief nods of welcome from the guards stationed on either side. Both Elrond and Glorfindel were familiar faces in the Grey Havens, he knew, and were, therefore, seldom barred from the gates with the formulaic command to be recognized.

But now they entered the heart of the city, an elaborate stone labyrinth that extended for miles across the land and up both of the north and south coasts, becoming incredibly busy and haphazard at the mouth of the River Lhûn, people meandering about across the cobblestones. But it was an architecture that had a beauty of its own, a beauty that no other Elven realm could possess and that was the beauty that age defined. The stone that crafted the city was worn smooth and stood with an ancient delicacy of its own.

Rather randomly, Glorfindel's words came back to him and he looked to him in slight confusion. "Wait, Glorfindel, you say that you are not used to it? Out of all the time you spent with the Elves in Aman, not to mention here?"

Glorfindel smiled. "That is different, Elrond. These Elves are different."

Elrond had to concur with that, for the sensation that Elrond so eagerly welcomed was wrought by the Elves of the Havens alone. The people here were more content, more at peace than any other Elf in Middle-earth, for the city had never been plagued or tainted by the evil hand of Sauron. But more than that, Círdan and his people remained distinct from all other Elves in many ways, which was why Elrond and many others found the aura they emanated very foreign. It was a different living of a different folk, an indescribable something that he wished the people of his own realm would be granted, for Mirkwood and the forests of Lórinand to be granted, for he truly believed that it would provide them a better living, to be more at peace in a world gone awry. But no; that something came only hand in hand with Círdan's folk, unfortunately, for they were so apart from the inland Elves that they could seldom be understood or a bridge ever formed with them.

And their voices, Elrond thought absently. In all the years he had been living and across all the lands he had traversed in Middle-earth he had heard many Elves sing and they had sung many tunes. But no Elf, of any place, he had learned, could sing more beautifully than the Sea-elves. Even now, as he and Glorfindel lead their horses closer to the harbor, they could hear a few Elves here and there lifting their voices together. But it always sounded as though their voices were being borne on the wind instead of coming from their own persons. Ever since his childhood, he had always equated their voices to be carrying the sound of the waves. And in the tales he had told his children, it had been the vast Sea singing itself, for, in their voices, one could always hear the yearning they burned with for the Waters. Though, hearing that harmonious sound again, he didn't believe he was far from the truth.

Glorfindel's voice, once again, interrupted his musings.

"Do you know what to speak about with him?" he asked lowly, cautious of the people that could overhear.

Elrond glanced at his serious demeanor and sighed. "There is nothing much to speak of, my friend. It is all very simple. I only hope that Círdan will be able to answer it. You know how vague he can be."

Glorfindel nodded. "Vague to the point of frustration, correct?"

"Correct."

If he answers at all, Elrond added silently. Approximately a year ago, Elrond and his House had been graced by the visit of a rather strange, old Man. Or, at least, he appeared to be a strange, old Man, Elrond thought. Mithrandir, he had said his name was. And the old being, whatever he was, seemed to get a great thrill in being extremely vague and mysterious himself whenever he had the opportunity to be. While becoming acquainted with him, Elrond received the impression that he was rather amused by it as well. But what alarmed him to no end was when, in the privacy of his own study, this Mithrandir presented his hand before him and the red-stoned Ring on it.

Narya. Elrond was still flummoxed to no end why Círdan had decided to give the Elven Ring to a stranger. Sure, Mithrandir was kind. He was wise. He was strong-willed, but…why? Mithrandir had provided no answer, of course, save for the amused twinkle in his eye, which, for some unexplainable reason, disarmed him. But –

"Stop thinking about it, Elrond." Glorfindel's voice interrupted him yet again. "You will get your answers soon enough."

Elrond rolled his eyes at that and said nothing. But he didn't have to. They finally reached the harbor; the many graceful ships moored against the docks that extended at least twenty meters and Elves going to and fro, the port proving to be as busy as ever. Even now, a ship, sails reefed, was coming into port, the Elves on the dock waiting for those on deck to throw them the mooring lines. The drawbridge, to which they were heading, elevated high above the water, was massive. The four towers, two on either side and reinforced by iron, were linked by heavy rope cables, coated in a hard layer of tar for protection. Elrond could smell its sweetish, aromatic scent as they lead their horses onto the wooden roadway, the thick planks heavy and hard and reinforced with steel bolts. It was a powerful bridge, one to withstand any type of weather – or attack – and one that was drawn whenever a ship had to pass up or down the river.

Their mounts' hooves echoed loudly on the hard wood and, simultaneously, he and Glorfindel looked down at the ship that was docked just beside the end of the bridge and smiled. Sharing a knowing glance, they both reined in and dismounted, going over to lean on the broad railing and studied the ship beneath them. It possessed the grace and elegance that all of Círdan's ships were known for and was gently swaying to the motion of the current it rested upon. The two sails were reefed against their yardarms, which were anchored securely at an angle to the bottom of the mast and spars, and cargo was being loaded on by the many Elves at work and being stored beneath the deck.

"Welcome!"

Elrond and Glorfindel looked up towards the stern of the ship where the shout came from and broad smiles lit their faces at seeing a particular dark-haired Elf waving with furious vigor at them.

Elrond gave a short wave back, the smile still plastered on his face. "Well met, Ëarhín!" he called.

Both Elrond and the Elda couldn't suppress their chuckles as Ëarhín moved with the speed of a rabbit during the spring. He bounded towards the broad gunwale of the bulwark on the port stern and leapt over it with the excitement of a child, landing lightly on the dock two meters below. The other Elves aboard ship watched their exuberant fellow Sea-elf and skirl with patient, amused smiles as he ran at full speed up the cobblestone pathway that lead to the bridge.

Elrond and Glorfindel watched as Ëarhín, long hair flying and grey eyes lit with excitement and joy, skidded onto the bridge and ran at full speed towards them, a broad smile still lighting his face. And before Elrond could blink, he was engulfed in a rib-cracking bear hug with Glorfindel's sound laughter ringing in his ears.

Ëarhín released him and held him at arm's length, seemingly oblivious at the large breath of air that Elrond drew in. "Elrond, it is so good to see you!" And then he slapped his shoulder as his brow furrowed in anger. "What took you so long?" he demanded. But before he could reply, the bright smile was back as Ëarhín turned to the golden-haired Elda who stood watching with a tolerant grin.

"Lord Glorfindel," he greeted, clasping the warrior's forearm in a strong grip. "Thank you for seeing that Elrond arrived here safely. How have you been?" But again, before the twice-born warrior could answer, he turned back to Elrond with his brow furrowed once more and gave him a gentle shove to the shoulder. "Well, what took you so long?"

"Despite that it brings me joy to see you in such a cheerful mood," Elrond said, unable to keep a stern façade as a slow grin broke through, "would you mind explaining what it is you speak of? Why do you ask such a thing? I arrived here unannounced and I sent no missive in advance of my coming."

Ëarhín nodded impatiently. "Very true, but I wrote you a missive well over a year ago telling you to come to the Havens as soon as you could."

Elrond's eyebrow rose. "I never received a missive from you."

"Yes, you did," he argued. "I know I wrote it. I was too excited not to."

Glorfindel cleared his throat. "You may have wrote it," he inputted, "but are you sure you sent it?"

Ëarhín opened his mouth to reply and then closed it as he contemplated the question, trying to remember. Had he sent it? He knew that there had been a couple of incidents before when he had written the message and had forgotten the potentially important part of actually sending it.

"I might have," he said uncertainly, but then he shook his head, dismissing it. "A scribe, I am not. What matters is that you are _finally_ here. Come, come," he ushered, waving his hand impatiently to follow him as he began to walk back across the bridge. "There is so much to discuss."

Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged a knowing glance and grabbed the reins to their horses' bridles, gently leading them onward. "I wish I had his energy," he murmured to Glorfindel.

Glorfindel stifled a laugh as they caught up to Ëarhín, who had turned around, waiting for them. "What export are you planning so late in the evening?" he asked as the Sea-elf resumed his pace. Usually, he knew, any and all exports were prepped and planned in the early morning.

Ëarhín looked down at the ship nearly beneath the bridge, content to see that the Elves were still loading the cargo up the boarding platform. Despite his cheerful disposition, any who knew him well would say that Ëarhín watched with an eagle's eye to make sure that all details involving his, or any other, ship was carried out perfectly. Otherwise, he would breathe down one's neck until he got it right. What else could one expect from the Captain of the Shipyard, after all?

"I will be leaving shortly after dawn on the morrow," he explained, gesturing down to the ship beneath them as they made their way around and down the cobblestone pathway. "Due to the grace of the skies being clear for once in the past week, we decided to make a shipment up to three human settlements in the Hills of Evendim while the weather remains nice. It was a last minute decision and the crew is hauling the final load up to the deck."

"What are you exporting?" Elrond asked. It never hurt to be curious, particularly when he could make use of particular items. Some of the people yet milling about in the streets, seeing the two lords, nodded their heads briefly in respect before continuing on.

"The usual," he said dismissively, leading them at a leisurely pace down the street of the bay and turning down a smaller one as to lead them inland. "They requested mainly for our salt, of course. But we are also sending up jasmine, juniper and the like for medical purposes. We will also be sending them a large portion of bayberry bark and the candles made from their berries. And lastly, the ever present variety of fish."

Elrond's interest was caught. "If it will not be too much trouble, I would like to take some of the bayberry bark back with me." Bayberry bark, he knew, was invaluable to any healer. And it tended to be a rather large export to mannish settlements from the Havens. The tea made from the powdered bark was an excellent expectorant. For Men, it commonly promoted perspiration, to cause a fever to break through sweating it out, and to cause better circulation. He even managed to use it a few times to treat poisoning. But bayberry was hard to find and hard to grow. And the Grey Havens had an abundant supply of it due to the heavy salt on the wind.

"Of course, Elrond," he said with an easy smile. "You know you need not ask. We grow too much of it, anyway." With a short sigh he came to a stop and gestured towards one of the larger stables just a few meters ahead.

"Feel free, my lords, to leave your horses in the care of the horse-handlers. They will be well cared for, I assure you. They care for Círdan's own bay." But before they could head in that direction, he once again stopped them. "If you do not mind my asking, how long will the two of you be staying?"

The two shared a quick glance before Elrond gave an apologetic grin. "Not long, my friend. A day, at the most. We simply have to speak with Lord Círdan about something urgent and return home." His smile grew. "And as much as I would love to relax in the bliss of your Havens, I assured my people and family that I would return as soon as possible."

The Sea-elf shrugged it off. "Not to worry. You will just have to visit again soon." He took a small step back. "Well, I will let you take care of your horses before we continue."

"Could you point us in the direction of the guesthouse, Ëarhín?" Glorfindel asked. "We would like to get settled and refreshed before meeting with Círdan."

Ëarhín gave a derisive snort, crossing his arms in amusement. "Of course not. You are the guests of my lord and you shall stay up at his home. You and I know that he would have it no other way." Glorfindel went to speak and he pressed on. "Besides, consider yourselves invited to dinner and that you have already accepted it." Glorfindel went to speak again, but he gestured impatiently towards Elrond. "Take care of your horse, my lord. We will discuss it on the way up to his home."

Glorfindel rolled his eyes at the impossible Elf and followed Elrond to the stables. Once their mares' comfort were seen to and assured that they would be well watered and fed, they began the confusing walk through the labyrinth of stone that went up, down, sideways, and backwards.

"What is this about us staying in Círdan's home?" Elrond asked.

Ëarhín chuckled. "You know that Círdan would not see that you have any less hospitality than his own," he said cheerfully. "Besides, I managed to catch a wonderful cod not an hour ago and it is now waiting up in his kitchen to be prepared. It really is a beautiful fish."

"You are preparing dinner for him?" he asked casually, hoping to hide the worm of concern that sparked at hearing Ëarhín's words. He saw past the Elf's cheerful façade and spotted the worry hidden deep in his eyes.

Ëarhín glanced over and sighed, recognizing in the Noldo's eyes that he had been caught. Glorfindel, beside his lord, also looked concerned.

"Yes, Elrond," he said quietly, all previous jollity gone, "I am preparing dinner for him."

Elrond nodded, almost to himself. "He is still searching then?"

Ëarhín gave a single nod. "He is."

Elrond nodded again, feeling considerably downcast. For many centuries, he knew, Círdan left for a short period of time every decade or so to head out to the Great Sea and sail north to the upper reaches of Forlindon. It was of nothing important, which was why he seldom made the journey, but for an Elf of such humility, it was only a small desire of his heart, possibly the only desire he now ever had, to lay sight on a pearl. Before the start of the Second Age, before all of Beleriand was laid to waste and taken under water, the pearls Círdan had collected had been great and abundant for millennia. Though it was sometimes used as a form of payment, they were more as precious jewels. As gems were jewels to the Noldor, pearls were jewels to Círdan's people. But to Círdan, they didn't possess a value of money; they were a link to the past, a past long forgotten of in the First Age. And, to this day, he only wanted to see one.

Just one.

And he never had.

"Is it really so selfish to ask for?" Ëarhín said quietly. "I too share his hope that a pearl or two may have washed up on the northern coast eventually. But considering how much he has dedicated to this world and how little to himself, it is really so much to ask to simply see one? He does not desire to even possess one, only to see one."

Elrond understood that sentiment all too well. To him and to every other Elf in Middle-earth, Círdan was seen as a living link to a past that was so distant that it could not be remembered or conjured by any save himself. A time when there were no differences between the Elves, no royalty, no hierarchies, no shadow of the Kinslayings, when the World was young and vibrant, and unwithered by war and the passage of Time. Elrond knew that that in itself made Círdan priceless beyond measure to the Elves; as certain Elves could communicate from mind to mind, that past could only be reached through him; there were no others old enough.

And the pearls, Elrond knew, served as a visual reminder of that past. And anyone would have to be blind to not see that he wished to live in such a time again. And each time he returned home from a failed expedition, Elrond knew that Ëarhín prepared dinner for him as an apologetic gesture.

"But I have to say," Ëarhín continued, shaking off the melancholy, "that you certainly know how to make a good timing. He is just now returning from one such voyage and sent a missive ahead that he would arrive this evening."

Glorfindel glanced at him. "A good timing indeed."

"Well, his absence certainly answers my pondering of why you are not in Círdan's shadow," Elrond teased.

Ëarhín smirked at him, but said nothing. He knew of the whispers and jests spoken over the years about how he was Círdan's dog. He couldn't deny them since they were pretty much practically true. Whenever time allowed it, he tended to stick to Círdan like white on rice.

"Tell me, Ëarhín," Elrond said, "how is Círdan doing?"

"How do you mean?"

Elrond considered his words carefully. Ëarhín, despite being one of the Mariner's closest friends, did not know that Círdan had ever borne Narya for all those centuries and he didn't want his words to cause any suspicion now. Even though Círdan was now free of that burden of bearing a Ring, it could still potentially cause trouble should word get out that he once did bear it.

"Is there any change to him?" he asked eventually. "From when I last visited, anyway?"

Ëarhín smiled. "I would say there is. I cannot explain why, but it appears that his heart is lighter. It is a change that seemingly everyone can sense, but not pinpoint. I will not complain, for whatever happened to cause his spirit to be lifted, I am grateful. Though…."

"What is it?" Glorfindel asked quietly, sensing Ëarhín's change of mood from ease to concern.

Ëarhín glanced around and lowered his voice, not wanting to taint Círdan's reputation with what he was about to say. "There was an incident last year that made me question his sanity."

Glorfindel and Elrond exchanged a glance, both realizing that it was at the time when Círdan passed Narya to Mithrandir, but Ëarhín never knew about that. "What happened?" they both voiced.

Ëarhín went to speak and they both saw the reluctance in his coutenance. Elrond rested a hand on his well-muscled shoulder and spoke softly, "Tell us later, my friend. We understand that there are too many people about who can hear it."

Ëarhín nodded appreciatively and fell silent once again, his own mind occupied with the never ending thoughts of his lord. Elrond was about to comment before they finally passed out of the city limits and reached the lone, foliaged pathway to Círdan's home. And thus, no longer being dwarfed by the elegant, stone structures, he saw the silhouette of the house against the setting Sun.

It was still far away, at least three miles. And it was elevated high above the sea level, built from the southern rocky range of the Blue Mountains, which gave Círdan a clear view of his Havens for miles out. There were two watch towers set five miles out and the northern beacon, also built into the southern reaches of the Ered Luin, was lit during the night to signify the northern breakwater to any incoming ships. If the sails of a ship with foreign colors flying should be spotted by the watchmen, the southern beacon was then also lit to inform Mithlond and her security of the arrival.

They trudged up the misshaped pathway, the warmth of the air dropping and their garments flapping with more spirit now that they were hit with nearly the full force of the western wind from the Gulf. Elrond looked over at Ëarhín and, though his gaze was cast in a faraway world that neither he nor Glorfindel could see, he seemed to glide up the pathway, dodging all minor obstacles without a second thought as though he had walked this pathway tens of thousands of times before. He had, of course, but it was still admirable to watch that he performed such a hike with such an ease. But Elrond could see that his spirit was low, that it seemed to be locked away in a shadowed room. He could nearly feel the lack of optimism that his jubilant friend normally showed. And there was only one person he could be worrying about.

"Ëarhín," he said lightly, hoping to distract the elderly Sea-elf, "tell me, since you have not yet. What is this missive you speak of that you forgot to send me?"

Immediately, his silent, weighty melancholy seemed to vanish, as though it had never been there in the first place, as Ëarhín turned to send a glare of mock irritation to the Noldo. "I did not forget it," he said firmly. "It had probably become lost on the way."

Glorfindel shook his head. "Listen, you stubborn Elf, excluding the debate of whether you sent it or not, what did the missive say?"

Elrond startled when Ëarhín started bouncing like an excited Elf-child on his begetting day. A bright smile lit his fair face and eyes as he turned to his companions, exhilaration positively radiating off of him. "By the Valar, Elrond, Glorfindel, you have to see it. Círdan built a ship!"

Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged a confused glance, wondering if the Grey-elf had taken leave of his senses. "What is so surprising about that?" Elrond asked, as kindly as can be. "Círdan has built many hundreds of ships. And has helped construct many beautiful ones at that," he added with an unconscious glance towards the multihued sky, where his father's ship _Vingilot_ was to once again soon sail its set course. "Why should we be surprised that Círdan has crafted another? He is the Shipwright, it is what he is named for; it is his skill and his passion."

Ëarhín made motion to stop them in the road and both turned to look at him, the obvious question in both of their eyes. And though Ëarhín was still beyond excited, they could see the silent admiration and immense awe in his grey eyes. He shook his head slightly, just staring at the two, as though hoping that the silence would impress upon the two Elves just how inconceivable this ship was.

"It is not just any ship, Elrond," he said quietly. And though the smile still lingered, the two could see that Ëarhín was gravely serious. "How do I explain this?" he mumbled, looking towards the West. After a few moments, he looked back towards his friends. "You know that each ship bears a name in accordance to its creator, purpose, craft, or design, just as your father named his beloved ship _Foamflower_. You know that the name of each ship is unique and only meant for the ship herself."

"Yes," Elrond said slowly, wondering where this was leading. He didn't have to wait long to find out.

"He has named her the _Fëagaer_," Ëarhín said meaningfully. This time, Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged a surprised glance.

"The _Spirit __of __the __Sea_?" Glorfindel repeated, wondering if he had heard right, for that was indeed an unusual name to grace a ship with.

Ëarhín nodded eagerly. "That is her name, given by Círdan himself. And let me tell you," he added as he continued their walk up the path, "it is Mithlond's prized jewel. In all my millennia of living, never have I seen such a ship as this."

Elrond looked at him doubtfully for a moment. "You exaggerate." Ëarhín had been living for nigh on ten millennia, Elrond knew, and had, therefore, witnessed nearly every ship of Middle-earth being crafted over the Ages, having lived with the Elves of the Sea for his entire life. Despite Círdan's inconceivable skill and talent with designing and crafting a ship, for indeed he was the best of the best and the greatest of all mariners, Elrond found it hard to believe that Ëarhín, Círdan's long-time first mate and close friend, could be so shocked and astounded by him crafting another. Certainly, the vessels created by Círdan were beyond admirable and a sight to see that was easily coveted, but nothing to make one lose his breath over as Ëarhín did now.

"I do not exaggerate, Elrond," he said easily. "Any Elf of Mithlond would speak the same words I do, believe it or not. Just wait until you see her. Maybe, then, you will understand my wonder."

"How does she differ from the standard vessel that you Elves are known to make?" Glorfindel inquired.

"Trust me, Glorfindel," he said, shaking his head with the awe that still existed from over a year ago, "it is different – far different. Círdan did not name her the _Fëagaer_ from just a moment of inspiration, as most mariners do. He knew that her name was destined to her since before he began crafting her. He knew what he was doing from the beginning."

Elrond noted the interesting wording that Ëarhín used. It sounded as though the _Fëagaer_ had appeared out of nowhere. "Did you not help him to build it?" he asked. Even if there was only one craftsman who articulated every single detail of the ship's hull and her completion, it was very common and always recommended to work with a crew to build one's ship. Every available hand was a help and, though he knew that Círdan easily had the skill to build one on his own, he was surprised that he hadn't delegated some of the tasks to some others, as what would have been expected. After all, it was not as if any in Mithlond would refuse to aid him. Most would be thrilled to just help him, for their admiration and respect of the Shipwright did run deep.

Ëarhín shook his head. "I did not. It was rather strange how this all came about, actually. It had begun about two years ago. Nothing had really changed. Círdan was still as quiet as ever. And, as you know, he continued to leave every night for a few hours, as was his routine, always returning as the Sun was rising." Ëarhín sighed. "He always leaves down the beach, passing beyond the sight of our inland watch tower," he continued, gesturing vaguely towards the peak of stone visible several miles out. "Soon enough, he had begun to spend more time out of all sight, returning later and heading back to where it was that he spent his time more frequently during the day. After about two months of this pattern, I inquired him about it." He sighed again. "All he did was stare at me until I felt stupid. And then he told me, 'I am building a ship,' and then he left."

Elrond couldn't stop the grin from breaking through at hearing the frustration in Ëarhín's voice. Círdan was certainly known for his ambiguity. If any being knew how to keep his silence, it was he. If one asked him a question, most people knew that there was only half a chance that he would receive an accurate answer or even an answer at all. And one could not perceive the answer by looking at him, for he had mastered the art of hiding every thought. He was an unpredictable Elf of mystery that most people treaded warily around, for his connection with the Valar was intimidating to most.

"Are you so surprised that that was all he spoke?" he asked evenly. He heard a deep breath beside him and new that Glorfindel was too trying not to laugh at Ëarhín's frustration.

"No, I cannot say that I am," Ëarhín said, albeit grudgingly. And then he was back to his chipper self. "But I soon found out that I was not the only one to inquire of his absence. Many of the council members asked him as well and, apparently, received the same answer as I did. But," he added with a chuckle, "after a few more weeks of this, word eventually passed around and the gossip mill started churning. For many long months, Círdan's project, as it was soon called, became a large topic of discussion for the Elves of Mithlond. Though, no one dared to utter a word of it when Círdan was in hearing range. Though Círdan knew of the gossip, about him and his ship. Even if his ears did not pick it up, he is far too insightful not to have been aware of it. But the Sun rose and set and the days passed, one by one. Life continued and Círdan continued his project as the rumors spread and grew.

"Finally, about fifteen months ago, Círdan summoned me to his study shortly after dawn had come." Ëarhín paused, and Elrond wondered what the Elf was thinking as a thoughtful expression passed over his countenance. "He told me that his ship had been finished and that he wished to test the waters with her." He huffed in amusement. "As though anyone would think that problems would arise with a ship crafted by his hand. But, nonetheless, he asked me to gather the crew and head up the beach to about five miles out, where his ship had been anchored."

They finally reached the rocky, steep outcrop that lead up to Círdan's home. The stairs, made of stone, had become entrenched in the earth, leaving a worn surface with foliage growing around it. Barely enough room for two men abreast, Ëarhín went first and the other two followed, making their way up the steep stairway to the stone-built structure fifty meters up.

Ëarhín sighed again and spoke slightly louder, as to be heard by his companions behind him. "I have to confess that I did not know what to expect as I walked down the beach. For reasons I could not explain, my heart was pounding in my chest, adrenaline racing through my veins and it took all my willpower not to take off running towards the anchorage."

Elrond wasn't surprised to hear that. The Sea-elves of Círdan possessed such a passion for shipbuilding that the opportunity to first see a newly crafted one proved to be the anticipation of a year. And, though Elrond understood it, he couldn't fathom how spirit lifting it was to them. Their passion for such things was as nearly as great as their love for the Sea. It wasn't insane. It wasn't abnormal. It was simply their way of life.

"It was so silent," he continued. "No sound existed, save the crashing of the shoreline and the song of the gulls in the air. And then, rounding the bend, I saw it." By his tone of voice, Elrond knew that Ëarhín was reliving the moment when he saw the masterpiece. "Elrond, Glorfindel," he breathed, "by everything that is sacred, I swear that I have never seen such beauty. I remember, once looking upon it, that I could not speak; I could not even breathe, I do not believe. None of the crew could either. We had just stared. Círdan had stood at her bow, preparing to hoist the anchor." He shook his head. "I would describe her to you, but there are no words I can conjure that would do her justice."

Elrond looked beside him at Glorfindel; an interest in his eyes that he saw was reflected in the Elda's. "Then we will have to see it, if a talkative person such as you cannot even find words for it."

Ëarhín shot him an amused smile. "Yes, well…anyway, it was then that Círdan told us that she was to be named the _Fëagaer_. Though shocked by the name, I was skeptical of it, doubtful of the reason why. Again, I inquired Círdan for the reason behind the name, but he did not answer. We hauled her out and rowed her under way. Once far enough out, we raised the yardarm and trimmed the sail and just let the wind take over our course. The Gulf was calm enough near the bay, so the ship did not seem to go under way any different than his other vessels. But when we arrived to open sea, where the ferocity of the waves grew with the intensity of the wind, we were able to see just how magnificent the _Fëagaer_ truly was."

He slowly shook his head, unconscious of the movement. "It was as though she were flying; so smooth, so balanced, so surreal. It truly was. The hull of the bow had not even broken the crest of the waves. She just sailed right on over. I felt no tension of the deck beneath my feet, no evidence that the ship was battling for dominance over the course of the waters. Instead of the ship working in accordance with the sea, it seemed as though that the sea was working in accordance with her. _They became one_. I know that it is a fanciful notion, but it was then that I believed that she was truly the Spirit of the Sea.

"Círdan decided to bring it in to port, so we brought her astern and headed back, though we would have given anything to sail on her longer." He chuckled. "You should have seen the astonishment and excitement of the crowd that had gathered as we rowed her in."

"If _you_ were shocked by this ship, I can imagine their reaction," Elrond said, grateful that they were reaching the end of the stairway. "Why did we not see her back there? Is she not docked at the harbor?"

Ëarhín shook his head. "No. She is docked at Círdan's small anchorage," he said, gestured absently towards the stretch of beach west of them. "And finally, we are here." He took a deep breath as he stepped up on the verandah.

Elrond stepped up beside him followed closely by Glorfindel, taking a deep breath of his own. Despite being in excellent physical condition, that trek up the many stairs could still test one's stamina. Glorfindel, of course, was as unflustered as can be. The wind was stronger up here, the chill of the air greater, and the smell of salt as powerful as ever. Although he had stood on this verandah many times before, he still took a moment to appreciate the gorgeous view it provided. Being this high up, nearly as high as the watch tower, Círdan had a magnificent sight of everything. Over east a few miles, he could see the elegant architecture of the city of Mithlond with her multiple houses inland and, at the harbor, he could see the slight bobbing of the forest of mastheads of the countless beautiful ships perfectly aligned at both docks. But, as much as Círdan loved and adored his Havens, they weren't the main reason his home was elevated so high above sea level. Elrond turned to look west at the sight that, every time, without fail, captured Círdan's heart in an unrelenting grip each instance he cast his gaze upon it.

The sea. The deep water was rippling with the ever rhythmic role of the waves from the underwater current, breaking upon the shingles of the shoreline, white foam spraying, and the glint of the Sun reflecting in shimmering patterns of gold on the deep blue. The brilliance of the Sun was such a contrast to the deep hue of the horizon in that it set. Half way through setting, the golden disk breathlessly illuminated the beauty and majesty of the sea. The sky enveloping it, clear of the smallest wisp of a cloud, was a majestic array of enchanting hues of pink and orange, the peace and innocence of such a sight proving to be such a consolation to any spirit. Hearing the soft cry of the every present seagulls, Elrond cast up his gaze to witness the silhouette of the graceful birds gliding across the western sky. Having been raised by the sea, Elrond was used to such breathtaking sights, but he never did tire of them. But his love for them was practically nothing in comparison to Círdan's.

"Elrond, are you coming in or are you planning to sleep out there?" came Glorfindel's amused voice from inside.

With a roll of his eyes, Elrond turned around and stepped inside Círdan's house. It was a stone structure, worn smooth through the many centuries of salty air, and was large enough to host several guests. But unlike many lords' accommodations, it wasn't lavished and adorned with trinkets and creations that only money can buy. In every direction, it possessed the deep Elven elegance and grace Círdan had long lived with, but, like the sea, it had its own natural beauty through its simplistic nature. Even though it was structured with smooth stone, there were many windows and many balconies so that, in every direction one turned, he had a clear observation of either land or sea. It was truly a beautiful home, one that reflected Círdan's quiet nature and love of the Waters.

He walked into the large, open space of a combined kitchen and dining room. Only, the dining setup was placed on the long, open balcony to provide its occupants to eat, or drink, their fill with the beautiful sight of the sea to relax by. Even though the room was substantially illuminated by the light from the Sun, a grate had already been lit, along with the stove and several candles and lanterns – lanterns Elrond had always been fascinated in from a young age; though still, the silhouette of the metal encasing the flame seemed to come alive as the light flickered behind it, making the carvings of crashing waves upon the shore seem almost real.

"Sit down, Elrond," Ëarhín ordered. "May I offer you a drink?"

"I will take care of the drink," he said with a tolerant smile. "You are busy enough as it is." Indeed, Ëarhín had already filleted the cod, which Elrond had to admit was pretty larger than average, and was now candling the fish on a light box to check for any cod worms. Opting to let him get on with his cooking, Elrond poured himself a fine wine and joined Glorfindel by the fire, sitting on a chair between the grate and the threshold of the balcony.

"Now that we are in the privacy of Círdan's home," Elrond said, "would you now tell us about him?" He and Glorfindel truly wanted to know if Círdan was mentally all right after passing on Narya to someone else. Making such a crucial decision, he knew, could weigh on one's mind for many months afterwards, leaving one to ponder if he had made the right decision. Elrond knew that, despite his old age and wisdom, Círdan was still prone to doubt and worry, however rarely they may come to him. And apparently, according to Ëarhín, he suffered a brief lapse of insanity a year ago, though he didn't know if he was ready to believe that.

"He is doing well," Ëarhín answered, though his gaze was cast upon his work. "I am not certain on how to describe it. The change that has overcome him is so subtle, so minute that I almost did not see it. And I am not at all certain if anyone else has seen it either. To me, he still appears weary, but he does not allow it to slow or weigh him down. He does not even think of it. I am not even sure if he is aware of it. But, over the past year, his spirit just seems to have become slightly lighter, his mind less weighed down. I know not what has happened, but whatever it was, I am grateful that it did, for he seems to be more at peace. And peace is something that he has been cursed to be without these past millennia, as you know. So, to see the start of it is a relief."

Elrond furrowed his brow, contemplating on how to phrase his question without hinting at anything. "Does he not worry over anything? Are his thoughts no longer burdened with weight beyond the governing of Mithlond?"

Ëarhín laughed at that; he couldn't help it. "Please Elrond, spare me the jest." He smiled at his friend to take any sting out of the harmless words. "You both know as well as I do that if there was ever a being that worried and pondered the most over the fate of Middle-earth, it is he and no one else."

Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged rueful grins. That was true, after all. But, also in the exchange, there was relief in both of their eyes, relief at knowing that Círdan had obtained a peace about him, a peace that he had long ago deserved more than any other, but had never received.

"Of course his mind is still burdened by those thoughts," Ëarhín continued, oblivious to the other two's exchange, so focused he was on his cooking. "The day when Círdan no longer ponders or worries over such things will be the day when I turn into a fish."

"You already are a fish," Glorfindel said playfully, "considering how much time you spend in the water."

"If you are basing that ridiculous notion by how often I swim, then Círdan is a much larger fish than I am," he argued back, lighthearted. Though, he couldn't deny it; every spare moment that he could grab that wasn't spent on sleeping, he was in the water swimming, as were many other Elves. "There is something else," he added as an afterthought, "something I believe that both of you will be relieved to hear." He saw their anticipation and smiled at them. "He no longer rests with his eyes closed."

Elrond didn't even bother to hide his surprise at hearing that. "Are you being serious?"

The Sea-elf laughed. "Yes, I am. I understand your surprise. Like you, I had become used to the fact that he normally rested as such, so to see the change surprised me as well."

Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged another glance and he saw the astonishment in the Elda's eyes also. Whatever they had been expecting to hear, it wasn't that. Still waiting for that fact to sink in, Elrond put forth another question. "What is this spark of insanity you say that Círdan went through last year?"

Silence. He didn't speak and Elrond was unsure if he was reluctant to or simply didn't know where to start. It looked like both. Ëarhín glanced through the window in front of him, his countenance illuminated by the Sun, and a bright, yet sad smile graced his face. "Here he comes," he said quietly. "I will let him tell you himself. Perhaps you will achieve greater understanding of it than I did."

Elrond and Glorfindel both craned their necks to peer over the balcony railing and, just in the distance, they spotted a lone figure walking leisurely up the shoreline. Even from this distance, Elrond could easily see that it was, indeed, Círdan. Hair so silver, that while under the setting Sun it looked purely white, was gently wafting in the breeze. His feet bare, he walked ankle deep in the water, the seashore receding out only to surge back in against him and the white sand, and his gaze was cast upon the waters flowing beside him. Elrond had to smile at that habit of his long-time friend and mentor; whenever there was an opportunity to feel the water upon his skin, he took it.

"Is he carrying anything?" Ëarhín asked.

"Besides his boots, no," Elrond answered.

"I did not think so," he murmured, slightly melancholic. That there both answered his question and proved his prediction; Círdan had, once again, failed to find any pearls. And he knew that his lord would be depressed because of it, which was why he was here preparing dinner for him – to give his lord a chance to relax and rest his mind from the weight of a failed expedition.

Ëarhín sighed. He truly yearned that his lord would have no burdens upon his shoulders or mind for just one day. He wished Círdan would be blessed with the opportunity to spend time with his heart's up most desire; taking his ship far out at sea and being amongst its waters, fully enjoying the relaxation and peace he drew from it like no other and swimming the entire day through.

"Why the long face, Ëarhín?" Elrond asked gently, feeling his friend's melancholy.

Ëarhín gave a rueful smile and a small shake of his head. "If Círdan could live in the Sea, he would," the Sea-elf said with a hint of humor, though his far-cast gaze upon the Elf he admired second to none was heavily wistful. "As the Valar blessed you through your abundant ability to heal, I am faintly stunned that the Valar did not bless Círdan with the ability to breathe under water."

Elrond turned to him, unable to stop the smile from breaking through. "Now, I know you jest," he said with a small laugh.

Ëarhín glanced at him before looking once more to the Sea he loved. "Perhaps so, Elrond, perhaps so, but only by a little. His heart is alive and at home in the Sea."

Glorfindel furrowed his brow. "How did he come to arrive back here? Did he not sail the _Fëagaer_ up north?"

Ëarhín shook his head. "No, a coastal trading ship took him up there. You probably saw the ship come into the harbor as you arrived. My guess is that, when they fetched him, he instructed them to drop him off a couple of miles up shore. Hence, he is now walking."

The three sat – and stood – in companionable silence for the best part of an hour, waiting for Círdan to arrive. The lingering traces of the sunset were now almost fully gone, the Sun now absent from view, though the colors of the skyline were as intense as ever. As the minutes passed, the smell of a perfectly seared fish entrenched the air and set their mouths watering, along with the other fixings Ëarhín had been preparing. He was just laying the first of the food on the table when soft footfalls were heard outside the door. And soon enough, the door opened to admit an incredibly tall Elf, whose head was just shy of sweeping the top of the high doorframe. He possessed a lithe physique, not that of a warrior, even though he had long had the power and skill of one with deadly precision, having been one for most of his life. His was a physique that was shaped by the sea, as a stone at the bottom of the ocean would be after being worn away through centuries of being in the water. His hair, like spun silver, fell over his broad shoulders and seemed to gleam with white in certain parts from the light, and his beard, evidence of how unfathomably old he was, shone just as bright as his hair.

When Círdan entered, both Elrond and Glorfindel stood to greet him, waiting for his acknowledgment, though it was obvious that the Mariner had not seen them yet, not having expected any company to begin with. Ëarhín was right; he did look disheartened as he removed his cloak and outer jerkin.

"My lord," Ëarhín called mockingly, "you have company."

Círdan's head jerked towards the kitchen, his piercing grey gaze locked on the two Elves from Imladris, genuine surprise easily seen in his eyes, eyes as keen as the stars and that seemed to reflect the depth of the Sea in their great age. And then, after a few moments, a small grin touched his fair, elderly face that soon grew to be wide and full of joy, a rare display for such a private Elf.

Elrond returned the smile, beyond jubilant to be once again seeing the Elf he considered to be part of his family. "Círdan," he greeted warmly, and then added teasingly, "You did not foresee us coming, did you?"

If possible, Círdan's smile grew wider as he stepped forward and embraced the Peredhel in warm hug that lasted for several seconds. Despite being a fully grown Elf, Elrond always was somewhat reminded of being a child when being hugged by Círdan or standing next to him – he was so very tall, taller than even Glorfindel, and that was saying something. Though, with the Shipwright being the kinsman of Thingol, the tallest Elf to ever exist, he shouldn't be surprised.

Círdan held him at arm's length and looked him up and down. "Elrond," he said, his gruff voice lined with heartfelt warmth and something like relief, "it does an old heart great good to see you again." And again, he gave a small, tired smile. With a light touch, he swept Elrond's brow with his thumb and lightly ran his fingers along the side of his visage, his calloused hand incredibly rough, not just from handling a weapon for countless years, but also from the millennia of hauling and handling wood and rope. "I have missed you," he whispered. He leant forward and bestowed a light kiss upon his forehead. And Elrond couldn't resist embracing him once again; he truly had missed him.

"What about me?" Glorfindel complained, hands on his hips and looking positively grumpy.

Círdan rolled his eyes at the Balrog-slayer and let go a small sigh of resignation. "Very well, Glorfindel. You I also missed greatly."

Glorfindel nodded emphatically. "Good." And then, with a bright, genuine smile, he stepped forward and embraced the Mariner. "It is so very good to see you well, Círdan," he whispered in his ear.

Círdan stepped back and gave him a brief nod of respect. "What are the two of you doing here?" he asked quietly. "I had received no word of your arrival."

"We came unannounced," Elrond said. "And just in time, according to Ëarhín."

"Indeed they did," the Sea-elf interjected. "And dinner is ready, so let us all eat."

Not allowing them to speak another word, Ëarhín ushered them out to the balcony where an array of food was neatly set up on the dining table. As Elrond sat down, he watched as Círdan sat at the head of the table. As Ëarhín had said, the Mariner did seem slightly more at ease. His glow seemed brighter and his presence a tad less tense. But Elrond studied his eyes; though Elrond too saw the subtle change that Ëarhín spoke of, it was all too obvious that, by his eyes, the Mariner was tired. Though Elrond equated the exhaustion from the journey he had just completed. He doubted Círdan had rested on the voyage back. And for an Elf who never allowed someone to see his status of health, that he couldn't even hide his fatigue said something great about how fatigued he felt. And he felt just a sliver of guilt for preventing the Mariner from obtaining the rest he had obviously been expecting.

Elrond remembered the smiles Círdan had greeted them with when he had walked into the house. That there had been evidence to the Noldo of just how much his appearance had meant to the old Sea-elf; Círdan rarely smiled and rarely, if not never, let his thoughts be read through his countenance. It wasn't as though he practiced and preferred keeping a stoic façade as some people did, such as his own Chief Counselor. For Círdan, it was an unconscious action. His deep connection with the Sea and the powers behind it tended to make him detached from the average way of living, without him realizing it half the time. He had lived for far too long and had seen and experienced far too much, even by Elven standards, to be considered a normal person. In simple words, Círdan was not a normal Elf – far from it – and that he gave a smile proved just how great his joy had been upon arriving.

"Yet again, you are doing it, Ëarhín."

Elrond was dragged out of his musing by Círdan's mock patronizing tone. Ëarhín looked about innocently, though Elrond doubted that his confusion was genuine.

"What am I doing?" he asked.

Círdan narrowed his eyes. "You have prepared me dinner."

The Sea-elf shrugged. "So?"

Círdan stared at him for a long, hard minute until the younger Elf broke his gaze. "You only prepare the food for me when I yet return from another failed search."

Again, Ëarhín shrugged. "Is that a crime?"

Dismissing the Elf with a contemptuous shake of his head, he turned to Elrond. "Tell me, young one, how fare your wife and children?"

O = O = O

Dinner had been a pleasant affair. Partaking in the gaily chatter, discussing a whole manner of subjects, whether they would be of importance or immaterial, it was a relaxing hour of great delight. There was laughter, there were quiet moments, there was harassment being exchanged only one too many times, but, all in all, Elrond didn't regret one moment of it in the end. In a comparative way, it had felt like a long awaited family reunion. But most of all, Elrond was overjoyed to see that most of the melancholy that the old Elf seemed to carry appeared to fade away during the evening. And, of course, the companionable meal was set to great heights by the delicious dinner that Ëarhín had made.

"I am grateful for the meal, Ëarhín," Círdan said, lightly pushing his plate away. "Thank you. You never have to, yet you always bless me with that kindness."

Ëarhín nodded and gave a small, apologetic smile. "I do regret that you were unable to find anything this time."

Círdan gave a small shrug, seeming to dismiss it, but they could all see that he also regretted it and regretted it deeply; it disheartened him. "Everything will come gradually at its appointed hour," he said softly. "Moreover, if the leeway of failure is absent, then triumph is hollow."

"Further more," Glorfindel added meaningfully, "it was you, Círdan, who once told me to neither let victories enter your head nor let failures indwell your heart."

There was a moment of silence until Círdan gave him a wry grin. "I see my words are to be used against me," he murmured. He then took a deep breath and smiled, though his eyes translated that exhaustion. "Though, I deduce that the two of you are not only gracing my home for a leisurely visit. For what reason has my heart been uplifted by your presence in my Havens?"

Elrond hesitated, not because he didn't know what to say, for he did know what to speak for months now, but because he was unsure with how to dismiss Ëarhín without hurting him; the Elf had been Círdan's closest in confidence since before Elrond had been born, after all. The Elf might not be the brightest in the batch, but he knew how to bear knowledge and keep it silent.

During Elrond's silence, Círdan kept an observant eye on him and, seeming to comprehend his thoughts, for he knew him better than the Half-elf realized, he turned to Ëarhín and grasped his hand. "Ëarhín, will you excuse us, please? I am convinced that what he has come to speak with me about is not for all to hear." Aside from that, he had a pretty shrewd idea on what Elrond wished to discuss with him anyway.

"Of course I will," he said with an easy smile as he stood from the table, taking no offense. "I have plenty to do." He turned to leave, but then spun around like an excited cat to address Círdan again. "Though, may I suggest that you soon take them to see the _Fëagaer_? They both wish to see it."

"That we do," Glorfindel said.

Círdan paused thoughtfully for a moment before standing from the table. "Why do we not go down to the anchorage now? We can speak of whatever it is you wish to, Elrond, on the ship. I much rather prefer to hold such discussions amongst the water." He turned to Ëarhín. "Will you guide them down there, by way of the lanterns? I would like to change into some fresh clothing before I join you."

That childlike excitement was now fully back in Ëarhín's system as he beamed with joy. "Come, come," he said hastily, waving for them to follow him. He led them over to the cabinet of lanterns while Círdan headed towards his room. Quickly selecting and lighting three for them to carry, he lead them out the door and they were immediately hit with the full force of the northern wind, which intensified greatly due to the clear sky. The flames inside their lanterns danced furiously, along with their raiment and hair. Very little light remained from the long set Sun and Elrond knew that, by time they reached the beach, the only light to guide them, aside from the ones they carried, would be from the stars and Moon.

"Is there a storm coming?" Elrond asked, alarmed with how atrocious the wind blew. He knew that such a sign meant a possible storm the following day.

"Possibly," he replied, sounding only a little concerned, as he looked to the north. "We still receive the effects of the winter gales early spring, so possibly. I doubt it, though; most of these winds tend to be false alarms. Not to worry, the wind will be subtle to nothing down at the anchorage. It is only the height of where we stand."

Ëarhín then walked towards the stairs. At the sight of them, Elrond took a moment to sigh and glare at them sulkily. Time for another beautiful trek by way of the stairs, he thought irritably. He heard a chuckle beside him and turned to see Glorfindel smirking at him, as though reading his every thought.

Rolling his eyes, he turned to follow Ëarhín down the stairs who, once again, looked like he was gliding, not even having to think about where he placed his feet. And Glorfindel and Elrond nearly had to run down the stairs to keep up with the energized Elf. They made their long walk silently and when they finally reached the bottom of the stairs, instead of taking the pathway, Ëarhín cut right and made his way through the underbrush and reeds, heading directly for the white sand of the shore not a hundred meters away. Ëarhín had been right; only the smallest breeze could now be felt and, craning his head, he saw the dark silhouette of a ship in the distance, just visible do to the night light.

Elrond couldn't believe it, but he was starting to feel a glimmer of what Ëarhín had described. Anticipation was creeping in his bones, his heart rate picking up slightly and he had an unnatural urge to rush up to the ship so that it would no longer be covered by shadow. But soon enough, the ship was encompassed by the light of their lanterns as they walked up the platform of the dock. And, indeed, Elrond became breathless as he stared at it with open amazement.

"Valar," he muttered absently. He heard Glorfindel's short intake of breath beside him and didn't need to turn to know of the Elda's shocked reaction.

Ëarhín had spoken the truth about the _Fëagaer_. She was beyond words. Though Elrond had seen much larger vessels in his lifetime, she was still massive in her own right, the mast soaring high and the mooring lines creaking as they stretched and slackened with the movement of the water. The sturdy hull was riveting patterns of red cedar and her keel was a graceful display of narrow elegance that reminded him of the Bruinen. And the sheen sails of white were reefed against their yardarms, smoothly cinched, and the peaks of the prow and stern reminded him of a swan's grace and beauty. Like Ëarhín, Elrond had never seen such a ship before. Seeing and understanding her craft was one thing, but to describe her majestic, almost ethereal, beauty was nigh on impossible. She was simply beyond words.

"Is she not beautiful?" Ëarhín asked, resting his lantern and hand on the gunwale and looking up at the masthead where the telltale lightly fluttered towards the east. He chuckled. "One of the rumors I have heard is that, throughout the construction, his hand was guided by the King of the Sea. Though I doubt it is beyond a rumor, you cannot deny that it is a compliment to the great skill he is known for."

Elrond ran his fingers along the gunwale, amazed by how smooth and worn it already felt, despite the enhancing sheen coating the dark wood. "Mayhap he crafted it with song."

They saw the illumination of another lantern behind them accompanied by footfalls on the soft sand. They turned to find Círdan coming towards them, clothed in the Eglain colors of white, blue, and grey. And his silver hair looked equally white under the night sky. Though, Elrond noted with amusement, his feet were still bare.

"He is not likely to drop that habit any time soon," Glorfindel whispered in his ear, a smile in his voice. Elrond nodded in agreement.

"Círdan," Elrond said, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice, as the Mariner walked up the dock, "what possessed you to build such a ship? She is beautiful."

He was silent for a moment as he studied his ship. "I know not," he said quietly. "The desire to craft her by my own hand simply burned within me. I questioned it not, for I would never bypass the chance to craft a new ship."

While he had been speaking, Glorfindel had studied her design and architecture with a keen eye. "I do not recognize this design, Círdan. Out of all the ships I have seen, the look of this one is utterly unfamiliar."

He ran his hand with a loving caress over the dark wood, his fingers tracing the smooth groves. "I am not surprised, for it once existed long before Ëarhín was born." He sighed. "This design only remains in my memory. None are left to recognize or remember it." He said nothing more and the others knew that they had to be content with that. With a deep breath, Círdan turned to his long time first mate and rested a hand on Ëarhín's shoulder. "My friend, you may want to acquire some rest now. You will want to set sail an hour early to make clear of the storm coming."

Ëarhín furrowed his brow. "You are certain that a storm is coming? Do you foresee one?"

Círdan turned and cast his gaze to the northern sky. Simply by studying the sky, Elrond knew, Círdan was aware of what the weather was destined to be, where it would go, and when it would arrive. He didn't know if this talent was developed and perfected over the long millennia of his long life or if it was just a mariner's skill he had been blessed with. Maybe both.

Círdan nodded. "I am certain. It will be here in the morn."

Ëarhín sighed. "Well, then I must take my leave." The Sea-elf turned towards him and Glorfindel and slightly bowed. "My lords, I bid you a good evening and I hope that I will see you in the morning before our departure."

Elrond smiled. "We will be sure to say farewell."

As Ëarhín left, Círdan gestured for them to follow him on deck. Glorfindel went and Elrond followed, grabbing hold of the forestay to balance himself against the rocking of the hull. He grimaced though, instantly regretting it as he pulled his hand away, now covered in the fine layer of oil that prevented the twisted ropes from fraying. They followed Círdan towards the stern and sat down along the back rowing benches, placing their lanterns beside them. This was peaceful, Elrond thought. The starlight, the soft wind, the soothing rocking of the ship…very peaceful.

Círdan smiled as the soft silence fell. "Despite being in the open air, none can hear us, Elrond," he reassured. "Please, speak your mind, for I know you desire to discuss Narya."

Elrond gave a wry smile. "You gave Narya to Mithrandir," he stated bluntly.

Círdan nodded. "I did."

"Why?"

The question hung in the salt encrusted air as an amused twinkle appeared in Círdan's eyes. "Do you not trust my judgment?" he asked teasingly.

Elrond rolled his eyes and gave a small laugh. "I have always trusted your judgment, Círdan, and have never doubted it. And I still trust your judgment for giving Narya to Mithrandir. But I cannot help but wonder why."

Another silence fell as Círdan studied the Half-elf. Normally, such a piercing gaze would encourage the one under it to look away. But Elrond had known Círdan since his childhood and met the gaze; however, it didn't stop him from being unnerved by it. It made him feel as though his mind was being lain out as an open book. But Círdan said nothing as he turned his curious gaze to the golden-haired Elda.

"I know now why Elrond is here," he said, "but why are you here, Glorfindel?" Glorfindel looked completely unflustered, after all and unconcerned about hearing his explanation.

He shrugged, nonchalant. "Wherever Elrond goes, I go with him." And then he smiled. "Worry not, Círdan. Though I am also curious to know what lead you to make that decision to pass on Narya, I am not concerned that you did."

Elrond unconsciously nodded. Even in Imladris when Glorfindel had first been informed that Narya was now borne by another carrier, he appeared completely unconcerned about it. And that alarmed Elrond, understandably. But Glorfindel had said that Círdan had his reasons, to trust those reasons, and to let it be that. Elrond couldn't quite comprehend it, but ever since that old Man had come to his realm, he had a suspicion that Glorfindel knew something about him that he himself didn't, if the way he had acted was anything to go by. Yes, they had befriended this Mithrandir, but Glorfindel's persona when around him had been like that of a long lost friend.

Círdan smiled at Glorfindel's words and turned his attention back to Elrond. "At what time did Mithrandir grace you with his presence?"

"About nine months ago," Elrond said. And then he narrowed his eyes. "Though he bears the appearance of an old, decrepit Man, Círdan, his aura is anything but." He saw a strange light appear in Círdan's old eyes and cocked his head. "He is no Man, is he?"

Another short silence fell. But after a while, a small smile creased the Mariner's face. "If he saw it essential to not inform you of his origin, then neither shall I. Worry not, young one," he added as Elrond went to interject, "he will speak words of it one day soon. You can trust him."

Elrond sighed. "It is not that I do not trust him, Círdan. I do trust him. I admire him, I am awed by him, I respect him, and I like him. And after speaking with him, I am content with him bearing Narya, particularly since I find it has brought you some peace of mind. I simply wish to know _why_ you gave her to him."

Círdan cocked his head in amusement. "You sound put out by this, Elrond. You speak that you trust my reasoning, and yet you sound as though you wish I had not." He saw the truth strike home in Elrond's eyes and added quietly, "What is it, my friend? Why do you wish I still bore her?"

Elrond gave a rueful smile. "I will miss being able to mind-speak with you," he said a tad trifled. "I know that Galadriel will miss your council as well. Your insight and wisdom were always invaluable concerning the future of Middle-earth, more so than any other being I have ever known."

"Thank you for that," Glorfindel said dryly, though the humor was bright in his eyes.

Círdan gave a wan smile of understanding at the Half-elf's words, but the warmth he felt for Elrond was easily seen in it. "My words will ever be available to you, Elrond. They always have been and they always will be. You have but to ask. You know this."

"And he does like to babble from time to time," Glorfindel added as a helpful aside to Elrond, an easy grin on his face.

Círdan turned his narrowed eyes on the golden-haired Elda. "You, penneth, are a pest."

Glorfindel stared at him, eyes wide and mouth agape in genuine shock. He shook his head, as though trying to clear it of confusion, and stuttered slightly before asking, "D-did you just call me 'penneth'?"

Círdan just looked at him with no trace of a smile, but with plenty of mock acerbity. "You are twice-born, Glorfindel, not deaf."

Glorfindel just stared at him, the immense shock still blatantly evident. Though, Elrond had to admit that it was immeasurably amusing and awfully strange to hear someone as old and ancient as Glorfindel be called 'penneth'.

Glorfindel leaned back against the gunwale with his arms crossed. "Mongrel," he muttered.

"Dullard," the Mariner replied.

"Sea rat."

"Ai," Elrond mumbled. Despite his mock weariness, he was grateful to see a glimpse of the lightheartedness that Círdan had been absent of for long time, longer than he could remember. And his lightheartedness had been extreme to come by even before he bore Narya. He didn't know what had led Círdan to his decision to give up the Elven Ring, but he was grateful to see that some good came of it in the Elf before him. "Círdan, please," he said with a light smile, "could you inform me of the reasoning for your decision now?"

Círdan became silent as a grave weariness crossed over his face. "Every day," he said quietly, "I wish that the dreams of my past would be the reality of the future." He sighed. "Yet fate aspires to unravel with its own will. The future is prominent and must be prepared for, though we live in the present, for we are made wise not by our memories of the past, but of our responsibilities for what is coming." He paused thoughtfully. "It is with that understanding that I released Narya from my bearing, for the future, though in my sight, is not in my hands." Círdan bowed his head, tired, and Elrond felt briefly guilty again for keeping the Mariner awake when it was so obvious that he needed to rest.

"You know I desired not to bear her," he continued. "But, in the wisdom I obtained a year prior, I knew that Mithrandir's need of the Elven Ring would be greater than mine."

Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged a suspicious glance while a dawning comprehension grew in the former.

"You foresaw something, did you not, Círdan?" Elrond asked, leaving no room in the question for denial. "You speak of wisdom you gained at the time when Mithrandir told me he had been given Narya. How, in such short a time, could you have made that decision without foreseeing the wisdom to make it?"

Círdan gave a sad smile. "I know not what happened on that day over a year ago, Elrond," he said. "To this day, I am still plagued with confusion over it and cannot solve it. For a long time, even still, I am tempted to question my sanity over it."

"What happened?" Glorfindel asked. "When we arrived this evening, Ëarhín spoke that he had been concerned about your sanity a year back. Is this what he was referring to?"

Círdan huffed in amusement. "How polite of him to put it so nicely," he murmured. "Yes, Glorfindel, this is the incident in which Ëarhín informed you of. When I enlightened him of it, he believed me not at all. No one believed me. And after much negative response, I had begun to ponder if I continued to believe it. And that is why I hesitate on telling you what lead me to give Narya away."

"Perhaps we will believe you," Elrond said calmly. "Strange happenings occur in Middle-earth endlessly. Who is to say that this may not be another one? And you, my friend," he added with a teasing smile, "are not exactly seen by the general eye as ordinary." Círdan playfully scowled at him and Elrond laughed. "Tell us, my lord, please. I could never place judgment on you and we know that you will speak the truth."

Glorfindel nodded in agreement. "You have an open ear."

Círdan inwardly smiled, wondering if these two would actually believe what no other has yet. And then he shrugged. "Very well, I will speak."

OOOOO = OOO = OOOOO = OOO = OOOOO = OOO = OOOOO

_Mithlond, 1000 TA_

His eyes, glazed with sleep, cleared as he suddenly awoke. He lay there unmoving; pondering what disturbance had touched his core deep enough to wake him, as though shaking his inner being awake. But it wasn't a disturbance that struck him with fear or uncertainty or alarm. It was just…a disturbance; something out of the ordinary. He stared at his ceiling, wracking his brain for unbearable minutes, trying to figure out what had woken him on a seemingly peaceful night. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and shut off his mind, allowing only his other senses to take over.

Despite the light blanket covering him, he could feel the chill of the night air creep across his skin. He could smell the salt empowering the air along with the bitter scent of the trees growing at the base of the Ered Luin. And his heart and soul throbbed with warmth as he heard the soothing sound of the rolling waves of the waters and deep rumbling of the ocean. But he laid perfectly still, eyes closed, and waited…and waited. He listened carefully, all of his senses on alert…and waited.

There it was!

His eyes snapped opened and he sat up from his soft mattress, the sheet pooling around his waist, as he looked keenly around his room. He was on his guard as he looked deep into every shadow, every corner and crevice. But there was nothing, he could see nothing. He glanced warily towards his balcony, which gave him the perfect view of the sea, seeing by the risen Moon that it was just past midnight, wondering if it had been his imagination that had heard the soft whisper on the wind. After all, a slight breeze was coming in from the balcony.

There it was again!

He turned around, hearing the sound come now from behind him, only to find nothing. No disturbance, no sound, no movement. But he wasn't insane; he knew he had heard the noise. Fully on alert, he stood from his bed, slipping on a thin, white robe, his eyes constantly scanning around the room, examining everything from wall to wall. Was someone in his house? Quietly, he lit a candle that had burned low on its wick and, eyes still peering around, he picked up the brass taper and looked carefully into the shadows now illuminated. Nothing. No one and nothing was in his room.

His head snapped around to the door as he heard the soft, subtle whisper of a noise again. Cautiously, he walked over and, opening the door to find nothing, stepped outside his room, peering slowly into the hallway, left and right. Shadows covered the small corridor and it was silent. He couldn't see anything different. His whole being on alert and with impossibly slow steps, he stepped out into the hallway and walked down it.

There it was again.

He heard it. This time he was for certain that he had heard it. Though, from which of the rooms, he didn't know. It seemed to come from all four at once. There had to be someone in his house, he surmised. Who else could be making such a small noise that was just audible? But how could they have entered his home when it was constantly guarded, this night – as well as most nights – by Ëarhín? Maybe it was Ëarhín himself that had entered, though Círdan dared not to call out his name. It was because of being careful that he had lived so long and he looked forward to maintaining that record.

But as he walked down the hallway, approaching the first door on his left, he strained his hearing, which was incredibly sharp already, and still heard nothing save for his own soft footfalls that were practically inaudible anyway. Without the smallest sound, he grasped the brass door handle. It would have probably been smart to carry a small weapon with him in case there was an intruder, but he trusted his reflexes and ability to safeguard himself. He didn't need a weapon.

He hoped.

With the minimal noise of metal scraping on metal, he swung the door open and held the taper high, its illumination reaching to the furthest corner. And he found nothing. No one was here. Nothing was disturbed. But it had sounded as though the sound came from this room.

What is happening, he thought, becoming now a little worried. But he wasn't scared. Why wasn't he scared? He was alarmed and cautious, but not scared. Deep down, he knew he sensed that peril was not present; there was no source of evil approaching him. And through Narya, resting on his finger, he perceived no danger anywhere in his Havens; they were peaceful with everyone resting. But what caused this disturbance that he not only heard, but _knew_ he felt deep within him?

There it was again.

Círdan froze and gently closed his eyes, bowing his head. The sound was strange – it was as though someone was breathing in his ear; gentle, soft, subtle, but audible. And he heard it again, a soft breath of wind in his ear. But this time, he felt a small tug on his heart, as though a hand were gently coaxing his soul to move forward. He took a deep breath, absorbing the sensation, not even realizing that his candle had blown out, though there was no breeze. After seconds passed and the pressing of his heart grew, his being flooded with warmth as he heard the deep grumble of the Waters grow in intensity. And then, almost unconsciously, he opened his eyes and looked out the large window.

The Sea.

The Sea was calling him. The deep of the Waters and rolling waves were beckoning him. It was whispering to him in his ear. He heard it; he knew he did. And his heart felt it, flooding with warmth and comfort, as a gentle tug that moved his feet forward. Absently setting the taper down on a table, he made his way to the door, stepping outside, his gaze set only on his destination.

O = O = O

Ëarhín scowled as he studied the skies far over the waters. Judging by the black clouds in the far distance and the not-so-gentle wind that bombarded him now, there would be a nasty storm come morn. Indeed, he thought sourly, the waters of the Gulf already seemed to enter the beginning stages of tumult. But he smiled and felt considerably lighter at knowing that he did not have to sail anywhere tomorrow. He crossed his arms and nodded, feeling a sense of satisfaction, and leaned back on the smooth rock behind him.

Despite the heavy sound of the wind and waves, Ëarhín heard rushing feet behind him and he turned around, alarmed to find Círdan hurrying down the last of the steps from his home. The Mariner was then walking across the sand, his loose hair blowing in the wind, flashing white as the moonlight struck it, and Ëarhín took a moment to be amazed at his lord's state of dress; his feet were, unsurprisingly, bare, but he wore nothing on him save a pair of sleeping pants and a light robe. Waiting for Círdan to be in hearing distance, Ëarhín felt a small sense of alarm in the back of his mind to find his elder's eyes focused on the water beyond him – he had thought the Mariner had needed something from him. Apparently not, he thought.

"I have never seen you so minimally dressed," he teased lightly as Círdan approached.

"Not now, Ëarhín," he said quietly, looking past him out to the vastness of the sea.

Pretty well alarmed now, Ëarhín reached out with a firm grip and stopped the tall Elf from continuing any further, only to receive an annoyed glare from Círdan. But he dismissed that.

"My friend," he said, concern lacing his voice, "what is wrong? You are not acting as yourself."

Círdan's annoyance cleared to be replaced with calm patience. He took the hand from his arm and grasped it firmly. "I will be back shortly, my friend. A sound interrupted my sleep and I need to find out what it was."

Ëarhín raised an eyebrow. "What do you hear?"

"The Sea."

Ëarhín rolled his eyes at the vague answer. Of course he heard the Sea, he thought irritably. He always hears the Sea! "What do you hear in the sea?" he asked patiently. "I hear nothing."

"If you listen closely enough, you can hear him," he replied.

Ëarhín's confusion cleared instantly and a small smile appeared on his face. By _him_, he knew, Círdan meant Ulmo, Lord of the Waters. Grasping the hand in return, he stepped out of his lord's way. "Go, my lord. I understand and will await your return."

Círdan nodded, briefly resting his palm against the younger Elf's cheek – for he knew that Ëarhín looked out for him constantly – and headed his way. Ëarhín watched him go up the beach with a tolerant smile. At a leisurely pace, he began to make his way towards the northern watch tower to keep an eye out for Círdan when he returned. He had been alarmed at seeing his lord rise so early – Círdan normally woke three or four hours after midnight since he loved to spend the beginning of his day simply gazing up the stars and nothing else. Ëarhín knew that his lord had done so since long ago when he had first awoken and that watching them never failed to relax him. And it was at that time when Círdan would rise to go about his walk that Ëarhín would leave from his shift.

Though Ëarhín was too senior in rank to be officiated the bore of guard duty, he frequently volunteered himself for the night shift of guarding his lord's house. His request was always met without argument, for he was the Lord of the Havens' closest friend. But Ëarhín believed the acceptance of his request to guard Círdan's home went deeper than that; he believed that he was really the only Elf brave enough to do so. Many were wary around Círdan and tended to unconsciously walk on eggshells when he was in the vicinity. Not because of fear, but because of the uncertainty they felt when Círdan was near them.

Círdan was not the type of Elf that people tended to feel comfortable around or to befriend like they would with Elrond, Ëarhín knew, briefly wondering how the Lord of Imladris was faring. He would have to send him a letter sometime soon, he thought. Elrond possessed a soul as kind as Summer and a gentleness, which belied his kingly venerability, that often persuaded people to drop their guard and trust him. That wasn't to say that Círdan was the opposite, for he was kind of heart and spirit and emanated humility and wisdom. But people, whether they'd be Elves or Men or any other creature, seemed to unconsciously sense how old Círdan actually was, a sentiment that was backed when they looked into his aged eyes that swam with memories unimaginable. That, for some reason, tended to make most people wary, Ëarhín reflected sadly. But Elves, whose spirits endlessly aged in their own right, tended to be wary around Círdan for a whole other reason.

His connection with the Valar was uncanny. That he had actually been befriended by Ulmo and his vassal, Ossë - a being whom he was personally terrified of, still remained a marvel to all. He hadn't been the only Elf to be befriended as such, Ëarhín knew, but none of the others who had been befriended now lived. Or they at least no longer remained in Middle-earth. Despite how aged Ëarhín was, which was old even by Elven standards, that time of friendship that Círdan had lived to witness and enjoy now only remained a distant memory in Círdan's mind. Ëarhín hadn't been alive then. But out of all the years he had lived, he had been present when Ulmo apparently summoned his lord to speak with time and time again. And that mixed with his age seemed to make him detached from the world around him, thus resulting people being awe-strucked by him rather than wanting to befriend him. Even his own people, here at the Havens, treaded warily around Círdan, even though their respect and awe for their lord ran unfathomably deep. All Sea-elves possessed a longing for the Sea, yet it was seemingly nothing when compared to the Mariner's. Círdan was like a Sea-elf existing alone amongst the Sea-elves that existed in their own way of living, a diamond in the ruff. So he was simply seen different by everybody. Not that Círdan cared, Ëarhín thought. His mind was so preoccupied these days with thoughts of Middle-earth that Ëarhín thought he would go mad if it were him.

Although, now, he couldn't help but wonder what was in store for Círdan when he arrived at the destination only he knew of, if he truly had heard the summons of Ulmo. What could the Vala possibly want to inform him of this time? Well, time would tell, he knew. He just had to wait for Círdan to return and find out himself. He always did.

"Be careful, Círdan," he murmured.

To be continued….

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><p>Ëarhín = 'sea-child' or child of the sea<br>Fëagaer = 'sea-spirit' or spirit of the sea  
>Ered Luin = Blue Mountains<br>Ossë = vassal of Ulmo and charged with the waters of the Hither Lands (Middle-earth)

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><p><strong>AN:** Well, that's chapter one finished. I'm still amazed with how long it became. If long chapters are not your taste, I do apologize for that, though the coming chapters won't be any better in that regard, aside from a good deal shorter (I hope). The next chapter continues with Círdan's tale of what exactly had led him to make the decision to give Narya to Gandalf. And as Elrond said, it's not normal. :) For this chapter, please review! Any and all words are welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I own not a thing of Tolkien's amazing world, save the character Ëarhín.

**A/N:** Finally, something goes to plan! As you can see, this chapter is nicely shorter than the last. This chapter continues directly from Círdan having his flashback, so put yourself in that mindset. I apologize if the beginning seems a tad slow, but remember, this has to build up and there are a lot of explanations that have to be said in order for the entire picture to come across. Keep reading, though, please! Now begins the tale of Círdan's insanity and what lead him to the practically insane decision of giving up Narya. Some knowledge of the Silmarillion may be recommended to read from this point on, but not too much. If you haven't read the book and don't mind being confused over a reference or two, then welcome aboard Ch. 2!  
>I am very nervous with Círdan's characterization, but I spent over six hours gathering all the info about him out of my books, so I hope it comes across as accurate. And I won't deny that I'm also nervous about this chapter, since it's one of those that you'll either love or hate. But enough of this chatter. Let's get to the point of this chapter. And please review! Happy reading!<p>

Further notices: for chapter one, thank you so much **janelover1**, **GreenGreatDragon**, **Lia Whyteleafe**, **Tori of Lorien**, and **adorkable123456** for your wonderful and very encouraging reviews! You guys are awesome and have no idea how much your words inspired me. You all encouraged me to get chapter two out that much sooner.

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><p>"The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace." ~ Kate Chopin, <em>The Awakening<em>

**Chapter 2**

What did Ulmo want of him?

Círdan could not help but to ponder that question repeatedly in his mind. The old Elf closed his eyes, but his feet went onward, seemingly of their own accord. All was silent in the dead of the night save for the roaring, salt-laden wind whipping ferociously around him, his hair and clothing going awry. If but for a steady foot, the wind would surely have knocked him over. But he looked ahead, his keen eyes peering down the long stretch of beach, his mind and attention focused only on the destination where the voice of the Sea consistently guided him.

Círdan, with his keen ears, could hear the deep, rumbling thrum of the black clouds overhead in the near distance. Thanks to the current of the wind, the raging storm was approaching his Havens quickly. The after effects of the winter gales were truly proving their might and danger. In the back of his mind, Círdan knew that, on his return, he would have to send out an order that no ship was to set sail to either the bay or river. No, he would not permit even one ship to break from the harbor. This storm would be nasty and he could easily foresee that it would rain down with full might and devastation early tomorrow.

But he continued to walk, having no panic of the upcoming weather, knowing that the importance of his destination reigned supreme in comparison to his concern for Mithlond. He knew not how many miles he walked, but only that he had been walking for hours now. He had long passed the northern watchtower and, rounding the bend, he now lost sight of its blazing beacon. And likewise, no one could see him. The white sand, once soft beneath the skin of his feet, had now turned to the rough, coarse shingles of the rocky cliffs he now approached.

Círdan stopped his pacing, drawing in a deep breath as he stared at the dominating sea cliffs and their sheer precipices.

"Where are you?" he whispered faintly. Doubt had begun to enter his mind.

And there it was again. He felt a warmth blossom in his chest as a voice whispered in his ear. Yet he could not make out what that voice was saying; it seemed to be distant, too far away to make out any syllables. But in that whisper, he heard the depth of the Sea come to life and, indeed, the crashing waves seemed to enlarge and grow in might as that whisper was breathed. The doubt now unfounded, he felt that familiar inward tug and kept on walking.

That tug was strange, he noted. It was like a substance, invisible to the eye, but audible to the ear and sensational to the heart. And it kept walking backwards, beckoning him with a forefinger and a patient smile on the corners of his mouth, taking one step back for every one he took forward.

The whisper came again and Círdan inwardly rejoiced as it grew louder in his ear. A few minutes later, the whisper came again, growing stronger and stronger and he approached closer to the raging cliffs. And then, as he stepped into the freezing water that swept the shingles, it came once more.

_Nówë_.

Círdan stopped and, finally, the smile came to the surface as he closed his eyes, hearing the endearment in that one spoken word. If there had been any doubt in his mind that Ulmo had summoned him, it would have vanished instantly. That name, now whispered, had been forgotten by every being on Arda. Only the Vala Ulmo, to this day, still called him by his true name, his real name, and he felt loved for it.

_Nówë, come to me_.

"Aye, my lord," he whispered back unnecessarily. Despite his countless millennia of living, he was still astounded and struck with awe by the power that deep, yet gentle, voice carried.

He opened his eyes and studied his surroundings. The wind was still trying to pry his clothing from him, but he ignored it. The towering cliffs protruded out in the water where the waves crashed against the grated rock, white foam spraying high in the air. Círdan took a deep breath, for he knew he would have to round the cliff face and step on the other side of shingles to reach his destination.

Without hesitation, he walked into the water, taking no notice of how he quickly became soaked. Taking hold of the rock to steady himself, he plowed forward, the waves crashing against him, drenching him from head to toe. Despite being a full Elf, he could feel the icy tendrils of the waters to his bones. To a human, he knew, this would cause severe illness. But he pulled himself across the rocks, his muscles straining as he resisted the pull of the waves trying to drag him out. The water weighed heavily as it slammed against him and fell down on him, coming down like a stone wall. His clothing weighing him down and his hair matted against him, he dragged himself across the last of the jagged rocks and took a severe right turn.

Now out of the severe waves, he stopped, still waist deep in water, and took several deep breaths before looking around him. It was a small cove in the face of the massive cliff, one that projected serenity and calm. The water, though gently rippling and suckling the base of the rocks and narrow shingles, was still. And the very air he breathed made it feel as though Time had stopped. The wind had calmed to a gentle breeze, though he could still hear it raging behind him.

_Nówë, come to me_.

Shaking out of his daze, Círdan slowly waded through the freezing water, making his way for the grey shingles. He could already feel the sharpness of broken shells beneath his feet. The shore was ten meters away and still, he approached it.

His heart pounded in his chest, as it always did when he approached the power-indwelt King of the Seas, and he stepped out of the water and onto the shingles, turning around to face the calm water of the cove. He didn't speak and his breaths came out shuddering. He wasn't afraid. He was simply respectfully awed, but it was an awe that was ingrained deep in his being, one that grew as the countless years passed. And it was because of this respect, this awe that he now kneeled down on the wet sand, his pose offering no resistance or defiance.

_Nówë_.

He felt comfort as that whisper came again, this time accompanied by a deep rumble of a powerful voice. His name was spoken with such a gentleness that it belied the Vala's great majesty, but it always reminded him that he was a friend to the Vala, as close as such a friend could be.

"My lord," he spoke softly, knowing that Ulmo could hear him through the water brushing his knees, "what do you request of me?"

Immediately, the calm pond of the cove erupted into a torrent of wind and rampant waves. The wind whipped ferociously at him, stinging his skin and Círdan cowered, bowing over, his face nearly in the sand, as he waited for this incredible display of power and authority to end. He could hear the thunder in the waves, the might of the Sea, as they towered above him, their white mist showering down on him in heavy sprays. The noise and intensifying grumbling of the earth grew as his heart beat faster.

And then it stopped.

His eyes closed, head still bowed near the sand, he heard nothing but the calm wisp of air circling around him. He stayed still, not daring to move. Though fear certainly played in as a significant factor, he was simply overly awed, too humbled to lift his face to the most powerful Vala, second only to Manwë. Though Círdan had spoken, seen, and walked with Ulmo many times before, the respect he held for his friend never dimmed, only strengthened, hence his submission.

He was unsure how many seconds had passed, but he became aware of a soothing motion around his legs and opened his eyes. It was the water of the cove – it was gently circling him and, immediately, his soul was soothed as he heard the echo of the Great Music that the water carried, the great song of the Ainur sung at the beginning of Time, a time he knew not, for it had been during Arda's creation.

A deep, grumbling laugh, seemingly from the bottom of the ocean, met his ears.

_Nówë, lift your eyes_, Ulmo said gently.

Círdan did as instructed and lifted his eyes to the sight before him. Cutting off the exit from the cove, an immense wall of water surrounded him, towering high above him, and he could see the white mist at the peaks of the waves breaking free and raining down. But on that wall of moving water, of the deepest blue and majestic rumbling, he saw a familiar face.

And Ulmo was smiling a small smile that touched the corners of his mouth of his fierce countenance. In his, supposedly, incorporeal form, Círdan always found it interesting how Ulmo's appearance was shaped by the water. His beard and hair were flowing ragingly with blue and white spray, his body molding with the twisting of the deep, sea green waves and then deforming, for the water moved constantly. But his eyes, dark as the bottom of the ocean and yet as bright as the stars of Elbereth, stared down at Círdan. They were keen, piercing, commanding, and yet friendly – as friendly as can be.

And Círdan smiled as he looked into Ulmo's bright eyes, as he had done many times before.

"My lord?" he asked, no trace of fear or hesitation in his voice. "Why did you call me?"

There was a pause as Ulmo's countenance became grave. _Nówë_, he spoke again, his deep voice sounding out all the greatness of the Sundering Sea. He lifted a hand, the fingers seeming to be rivulets of water, and traced the side of Círdan's face, getting the Mariner wet in the process, but he cared not – he was already wet, anyway – for the action was endearing. And then he spoke, his mouth not moving at all and it seemed that his words came from the water itself. And Círdan knew that if any others were present, they would not have heard him.

_Be still, Nówë_, Ulmo said, _and hear me. A task you have been assigned and awaits your acceptance_.

"I will accept any task you bestow upon me, my lord," he replied immediately. "You know I will deny you not anything that is within my power to do."

_Of that I know_, he said gently, _but you must bear your silence and keep it thereafter to all_.

Círdan pondered those words for a moment. Though he had carried out the few assignments designated to him in time past, none had required absolute secrecy. It was not as though he spoke about them to anyone – quite the contrary, for he always kept his silence – but that the silence was now required unraveled a worm of concern within him.

"My lord, what is this task you speak of?" he asked, not bothering to hide his uncertainty.

Ulmo stared at him for a hard moment. _Will you keep your silence?_ he asked firmly.

"My silence will be kept without question, my lord," he answered firmly in return. "That I swear."

_Good_, Ulmo said, the deep timbre of his voice resounding off the rocks. _You are to come out to my Sea. None shall stand by your side, for you shall go forth in your silence and abide of this yoke alone amongst my domain_.

Círdan absently nodded, understanding the gravity of the task that Ulmo was assigning him. When he set sail, most likely on the _Fëagaer_, his crew would remain behind. And he would not even be able to explain to them why. That already caused some discomfort within him. Wait. He was to go out to sea? In this weather?

"When, my lord?" he asked. "When do you wish me to set sail?"

Ulmo stared at him with a piercing gaze, shining with intensity, but Círdan thought he could detect a hint of sympathy deep within them. And finally, his voice came forth.

Firmly, he said, _Bring about the Spirit of the Sea at dawn on the morrow_.

Círdan's eyes widened as he stared at the Vala in disbelief. Though the wall of water blocked his view of the tumult of the sea, he could see the sky and it was black with angry clouds just waiting to release their rage. Already, he could hear the ear-ringing thunder.

A bit hesitant, though his face was as calm as can be, he looked back to the Vala and spoke in a steady voice, "Master, may I trust that you will calm the storm?"

Ulmo slowly shook his head, the wall of water churning as he did. _Nay, Nówë_, he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. _Ere you set sail the waters and thunder will fume with their own accord, for my hand shall be lifted and my vassal unrestricted, for I will permit his renown rage to come forth inland. You know this, Nówë. The storm will come. Thunder and lightning and all raging winds shall befall the Havens ere you come to my Sea_.

As he spoke, Círdan's heart slowly beat faster as a very real, very prominent fear began to grow in his chest. He was an experienced Mariner, the most experienced and educated than all who lived; therefore, he knew of the devastation this storm would cause. And now, Círdan was horrified – Ulmo wanted him to sail in it. Yes, his ship was strong and made for the Sea, but no matter how strong the ship might be, none could stand against this coming storm! This storm, he could see, would easily dismast any ship and shred the hull from the keel. To sail out in this storm would be suicide! Even he, the eldest of all mariners, knew it would be folly.

Círdan bowed his head, trying to douse this fear. "Please, my lord," he pleaded quietly. "Do not command me to sail such a trap."

Ulmo was silent and, in that silence, the fear in Círdan's chest slowly grew as he imagined all the possibilities this storm, one of the worst he had ever seen, could do to his fleet of ships.

_Nówë_, Ulmo whispered in a gentle voice.

Círdan lifted his head and again felt the water circling him. He looked at Ulmo, who was smiling gently at him and realized that the water was encompassing his entire figure. But it was strange; though it drenched him, the water was warm, as warm as Summer. And looking back up at the Lord of the Waters, he realized that the Vala was embracing him, gently holding him as he would a babe.

_Fear not, Nówë_, Ulmo spoke softly and Círdan was once again reminded of the friendly love the Vala held for him. _I see the troubles of your heart_. Again, Círdan felt the water encompassing him with more pressure. _I feel the fear in your being. State your mind, friend of mine, and allow your spirit to be at rest_.

Círdan nodded in understanding, realizing once more that, not only could he not hide from the Vala, but that he didn't have to. His long standing companionship with the Vala saw to that. And so, he did as commanded.

"My lord, I deny not the fear I have," he said. "Though the _Fëagaer_ was crafted with the Music of your Waters, it will not withhold dismastment once on the waves. And then my people," he continued. "You speak that the storm will befall on them. How could I abandon them in such a disaster?"

_Abandonment is not your course, Nówë_, he said. _Your people will be safe in accordance that I will it so_.

Círdan nodded, feeling a little better. And then another thought occurred to him. "My lord, as much as you and your vassal have educated me and as much as I have learned in all the millennia I have lived, so ignorant I am not as to say I can sail that ship on my own." He paused and sighed. "My lord, to battle such a storm, I shall need a crew. I cannot man the ship in this storm by my own hand."

_Your ship shall be guided by mine_, he assured softly. _Your course is set, for by my hand your ship shall be directed across my Sea_.

Círdan paused, realizing that Ulmo had this all planned out. Of course he did, he thought. Why was he even arguing? He had already given his word that he would do whatever was required of him. Therefore, trusting in the Vala as he had done many times in the past, he took a deep breath and looked into Ulmo's eyes.

"Tell me what to do, my lord," he said, "and I will obey."

Ulmo nodded, a hint of approval in his bright eyes. _Be at peace, Nówë_, he first assured. _No fear or doubt need assail you in this time. You will make your way out to my Waters come morn. To no one you shall speak my instruction, for none will be permitted to stand by your side. Aside from what is now present, you shall take nothing with you, for you will need it not. You will set sail ere you receive further instruction. Do not tarry, for those are my words and I bid you to carry them out_.

With that, another thunderous eruption of noise sounded as the towering wall of water caved in. The waves swept back and forth, slamming into the walls of the cove and crashing against each other, sending more of the spray on and around the Mariner. And quite quickly, the noise died down and the waves settled to little rolls of motion until all in the cove was as it had been when he had entered.

_Trust me, Nówë_. Only this time, Ulmo's voice was back down to a gentle whisper and it was then that Círdan knew that the Vala had left, aside from the fact that he couldn't be seen any longer. Besides, that feeling that time had stopped, the feeling of a foreign presence, was gone.

Círdan stood from the sand, finally feeling a tad chilled from the wind and water that soaked him. He took a deep breath, not from exhaustion, but just as something to do as he gathered himself for what he was to do.

Overall, it was easy. On this journey, none were to accompany him and he was to take no supplies, save for what was already aboard the _Fëagaer_. On top of that, he couldn't inform anyone that Ulmo had given him the instructions to even keep it silent, let alone that he must sail. But the largest surprise, of course, was that he would have to sail out into that storm in the morning.

Círdan let go a small chuckle. He could not wait to hear what Ëarhín would have to say about that.

O = O = O

"What?" Ëarhín shouted incredulously. "Are you insane?"

It was now dawn, though only an experienced sailor could tell. The deep, black clouds had come over his Havens, cutting off all possible sunlight, and the wind whipped westwards as ferociously as it had last eve. Rain was coming down in tumults, thunder shook the ground, and lightning lit the sky as a blazing furnace. And already, the waters were raging, slamming against the turf and crashing down on the many ships, the weight of the water hauling them considerably down beneath sea level. And both Círdan and Ëarhín knew that, once clear of the harbor line, the waves of the sea would come in wickedly fast at several dozens of meters in height, easily three or four times the size of the highest mast. It was a true storm of wreckage and devastation, one that the Elves had to appraise for its might.

And now Círdan was walking down the stretch of beach, dressed is sturdy apparel, heading for his anchorage and the ship that swayed fiercely at its dock, with Ëarhín only half a pace behind him, practically frantic, for all he had told his first mate was that he had to head out to sea and he had spoken none of the words Ulmo had said.

Círdan looked at him now, feeling guilty at the fully blown look of panic that graced his friend's usually merry face. "I am not insane, Ëarhín," he said as they walked up the dock. "I must do this."

As Círdan went to grab one of the mooring lines, Ëarhín snatched at his wrist and yanked him around, nearly wanting to shake the illogic out of him.

"You _are_ insane, Círdan!" he yelled. As a heavily experienced sailor, Ëarhín could see the catastrophic horrors and damages that this raging storm could do, _would do_ to a ship. "Yes, you are the greatest mariner I know, but you and I both know that to sail out into a storm like this would be beyond comprehension!" When he was met with silence and only the steadying, calm gaze of his lord, he released his arms and sighed. "Why not wait until tomorrow?"

"I cannot wait until the morrow," he said. "I must go now." Again, he turned to the mooring lines, but Ëarhín yanked him back.

"What has Ulmo told you?" he demanded, knowing that this ridiculous action _must_ have been instructed by the Vala, for his lord would never carry out an action of such stupidity on his own.

Círdan paused, but his eyes gave away no sign of hesitation. "I will not speak of what he said, for his words are only for me to know. Just know that I must make sail now."

Ëarhín took no offense at his refusal to talk, for Círdan didn't always confide in him of everything concerning the Vala. Instead, he sighed, bowing his head in defeat, realizing that the decision his lord had made was irrevocable and that nothing would make it otherwise.

"Very well," he submitted, praying that his dear friend knew what he was doing. "Allow me a short time to gather the crew and then we will break harbor."

"No," Círdan said firmly. "None shall accompany me, including you."

Now Ëarhín really did believe that Círdan had lost his mind as he stared at him in total disbelief. "Alone? Why?" he begged. Círdan, possessing the greatness of King Thingol himself, was the wisest Elf Ëarhín had ever known. How could he be doing something as stupid as this?

"It will be as it must," Círdan said, though not impolitely. Turning around once again, he began to untie the mooring lines from their respective bollards, calmly waiting for the rebuttal he knew his friend would vehemently declare. But he heard only silence behind him and, despite himself, he turned back around and was alarmed to see Ëarhín looking at him in downright devastation, his eyes lined with tears that were just visible through the sheets of rain.

"Ëarhín, what is it?" he asked, taking a step forward. His friend was made of too rough material to even think of crying, let alone doing it.

"Have you heard the call of the Sea?" he asked in a despairingly quiet voice. "Are you sailing to Aman?"

Círdan's brow furrowed. "No," he said with considerable spirit. "I am not sailing. Nor have I heard the sound of the Vala Ulmo's horn. Where would you obtain an idea like that?"

Ëarhín had let go a pent up breath he had held and forced back the tears that had insisted on surfacing. "How else am I to take this illogical decision, Círdan?" he argued. "You arrive back here not an hour ago and announce that you are sailing as soon as dawn comes. And then you refuse to wait until the storm calms and then you refuse anyone who would come with you! What other conclusion should I have arrived at?"

Círdan gave a small sigh. "My dearest friend, those are not reasons enough to believe I am sailing to the Undying Lands."

Ëarhín clenched his jaw. "I said not that those were the only reasons."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "What other reasons are there?"

"Look at the sea!" he shouted incredulously, gesturing towards it with both hands. "You know only too well how enraged Ossë gets when an Elf forever departs from these shores! Out of all here, you are his favorite Elf, Círdan. There is no denying that. And at the sight of how his wrath is not being contained only convinces me more that you will not be returning to these shores!"

Círdan could not argue that, no matter how much he wanted to, for Ëarhín did have a point – a very good point at that. Ossë did tend to be rather terrifying and unpredictably dangerous when he found out that an Elf was leaving his domain of the Hither Lands. And Círdan was not beyond believing that if he were to be truly sailing to Aman, then Ossë would have a fit unimaginable, one that would make the tumult of the sea occuring right now seem mild in comparison. Like he always told his sailors; do not mess with that Maia.

Círdan sighed again. "I understand your reasoning, for it does bear great merit. But you may trust my words, my friend, when I say that I will be returning. When, I know not, but I will be," he said. Despite how much he wanted to, he couldn't tell Ëarhín that Ulmo had said that he was allowing Ossë free reign with his rage, rage that had been probably been built up from the countless times that his spouse Uinen had calmed him. "Aside from that, if I were sailing, I would never be so cruel to my people and Havens as to leave them without instruction."

Ëarhín nodded, recognizing the truth of that. "Speaking of Mithlond, why are you not leaving them instruction?"

Círdan gave a small smile and rested his hand on Ëarhín's shoulder. "I leave that duty to you, Ëarhín. As I spoke, I must leave now and have not the time to do so otherwise." No, Ëarhín was not an officiated advisor of Mithlond, for, though not the smartest Elf concerning his age, his passion and love lie with the seas and craft of their ships, but he did know how to fluently delegate Círdan's instructions to the advisors that would rule in his place.

Ëarhín nodded again, accepting that task without question, but he looked miserable; there was only one factor of Círdan's plan that he couldn't see past. "Why must you sail alone? Can there not be any other way?"

Círdan shook his head. "I am sorry, my friend, but no." With that, he turned and continued to untie the mooring lines. Ëarhín watched for a moment, absently moving his soaked hair and rain away from his eyes, before begrudgingly going to help him, his hands moving with only half the enthusiasm as his master's were.

"At least you will let us sail another ship behind you, right?" he asked reasonably.

"No."

Ëarhín threw the untied, wound up mooring line angrily into the ship. "Why?" he asked, shouting once again. "Sail alone if you must, but at least allow another ship to sail beside you! Despite how graceful the _Fëagaer_ is, what if you become dismasted out there? Forget the fact that your ship could well may be shredded apart; what if you become stranded out there with no crew to row you back in? What then?"

Círdan, hauling the third to last mooring line (there were two more at the stern) onto the deck, sighed as he leaned against the gunwale. He had no honest answer to give to Ëarhín, for he could only place his trust in Ulmo that that wouldn't happen. Indeed, Círdan knew, as Ëarhín probably did too, that there really was no 'what if'. Any ship that set sail out there _would_ be dismasted at some point without question, for the wind was roaring in many directions.

He looked at Ëarhín and gently held his face, seeing the anger that lined every contour of his body, but he took no offense, knowing that Ëarhín's anger came from the fact that he could do nothing to stop the possible disaster that awaited a person he cared about greatly.

"You simply have to trust me, Ëarhín," he said soothingly, his eyes begging his friend to do just that. "Trust me as you have many times in the past." He knew that Ëarhín would worry, but Círdan didn't know if he could handle him being in despair.

Ëarhín closed his eyes tightly and was silent for several moments. And Círdan waited, knowing that his friend would have to work this out on his own and that no pressure from him would help. At last, Ëarhín opened his eyes and looked angrily into the Mariner's.

"Fine," he forced out, the faith he just put in Círdan so clearly the size of pea. "But do not make me regret it." Aside from that, he knew that Círdan wouldn't be gone for long at all; he was taking no supplies with him, as he could see. And all that was aboard ship was the average fishing net, two barrels of fresh water and meager dried meat.

Círdan smiled, knowing that Ëarhín would no longer try to change his mind. Stepping back, he gestured towards the ship. "Come aboard and help me store away the oars."

For the next half hour they prepared the ship for Círdan's upcoming journey. They first removed the two dozen oars from their oarlocks – for he would have no crew to row with them – and stored them beneath the deck, fastening them securely against the beam. They then set the belaying pins against the backstay, forestay and shrouds to ensure lesser chance of the heavy, twisted ropes loosening from their holds, despite how rare that was anyway. And then, par Círdan's instructions, Ëarhín climbed his way up to the masthead and trimmed the upper sail, tying its corners securely to its bottom crosspiece. And together, after removing the reefs from the mainsail, they took hold of the sheets and hauled on the rope, hoisting the yardarm up the mast, the sail fluttering in the wind. As Círdan went to secure the corner of the massive triangular sail to the gunwale, Ëarhín went to tie off the bottom end of the yardarm steadily against the opposite bulwark. Now tied off, the sail stretched to its full capacity as the wind bombarded into it. All that kept the ship from running were the two mooring lines still tied off.

The work done, Ëarhín stood still, reluctant to remove himself from the ship. And Círdan, seeing his despondent posture, did something he very rarely did; he went to Ëarhín and embraced him.

"Trust me, my friend," he whispered in his ear. "You will find me return in one piece."

"I had better," he murmured. Stepping back, he slightly bowed to his lord. "Farewell, Círdan. May your winds be strong and Ulmo grant you a safe voyage. Return soon."

With that, he vaulted over the hull and onto the deck. As he began to release the last two mooring lines from their bollards, Círdan went to the steering oar at the stern and released the leather thong from its tiller, steering it back and forth experimentally and was pleased with its smoothness.

The last mooring line released, Ëarhín quickly tossed it into the ship and, immediately, the _Fëagaer_ went underway like a wild horse waiting to be released from its stall. Already rapidly putting distance between them, Ëarhín saw Círdan haul the tiller towards the far right and the ship complied, angling out towards the left as she cleared the beach. He watched her go, making her way gracefully over the angry waves, just as he knew she would. But Ëarhín was fearful of what Círdan would meet as soon as he cleared the bay.

The first hundred meters of running were easy for Círdan, who stood feet apart and balanced with both hands constantly on the tiller. These waves, however large, were nothing that he had not handled before. But still, he tried to ride the waves as cleanly as he could, nudging the steering oar in accordance to the opposing direction the wave was traveling against him. As a rolling swell came against his ship, the hull would be vaulted up as the prow cut cleanly through the crest and then sail back down, the wake behind him quickly disappearing in the tumult. This pattern repeated itself for at least half an hour, and the further Círdan made his way out in the bay, the fiercer the rain came pouring down until it got to the point where he could barely see fifty meters ahead of him.

_BOOM!_

Círdan flinched reflexively as the loud crack of thunder set his ears ringing. He glanced behind him with squinted eyes, pointlessly wiping the rain from his face, and could no longer see the harbor, all thanks to the rain and dark sky he was sure. He truly couldn't see more than fifty meters out in any direction, and that limitation set his pulse racing a little faster; it was one thing to see a wave coming and maneuver the ship through it. It was a whole other thing not being able to see that said wave until it was right on top of you.

And within seconds, the next angry wave came, towering four meters high, and the Mariner compensated the size for speed, sending his ship around to the right side and the prow pitched forward and went plummeting down into the trough. The rolling thunder and roar of a thousand swells nearly deafened him and he peered around for the next wave he would quickly meet.

_Boom!_ More thunder sounded, this time followed by a haphazard web of brilliant lightning. And in the brief moments the lightning lit the sky, he saw the next wave that was approaching him.

"Oh no," he murmured.

For this wasn't one of the waves he had been battling before. This was a wave that he and Ëarhín had known would come; barely a scarce two hundred meters away, the dreadful wave was towering into the sky at least three times the size of his mast, and it was coming quickly. Already, even through all the rain, roaring wind and rolling thunder, he could hear its deep grumble stirred from the bottom of the sea.

Experienced as he was, Círdan knew that there was very little he could do to oppose this. The wind running him wasn't strong enough to take his ship over the wave, not even half way, and it was far too wide for him to even try and steer her in either direction. Perhaps if he could see clearly, he would have had time to avoid it. And he knew that, once the power of the wind failed, the massive wave would treat his precious ship as a river would with driftwood; with total carelessness. And it would be as Ëarhín described – not only would she be dismasted, but his ship would be shredded within a matter of minutes. Let it be unsaid where exactly that left him.

The last time he had felt fear while out at sea had been in his youth. But he was feeling that fear again now, more prominently than ever before, for in his youth he had been innocent of all the workings of the Waters. But now, with all the experience and knowledge he had, that fear was worsened by a tenfold. At the moment, he wondered if his heart could beat any harder in his chest. This was one form of adrenaline that he did not care for.

Another round of thunder and lightning indwelt the sky and Círdan again saw the colossal wave, now less than a hundred meters from him and coming up fast. His ship would not survive this; he knew that with absolute certainty. What was he to do?

The _Fëagaer_ vaulted up over another jolting wave and, her prow raised high, flew midair for a moment before slamming back down on the surface, sending Círdan to his knees and he cursed his inattention. As he stood, wiping the rain from his eyes again, he more felt than saw the next one coming, able to feel the flow of water running beneath his feet through the ship's bottom. And, seeing the lull, he angled the steering oar to the left, and the ship responded, turning to the right and smoothly riding the side of the wave, the prow breaking the crest and sending water aboard to slosh about on the deck. She tilted alarmingly to the right as the mass of the wave soared under her and Círdan grabbed hold of a nearby shroud for balance until she leveled out again. With another wipe of his eyes, he quickly flew over the next wave as another round of thunder and lightning indwelt the clouds.

The wave was now within fifty meters and Círdan watched it come closer with undeniable dread, his eyes rising and head tilting back as it grew and towered high above him. When the base of the wave reached twenty meters ahead, he saw the prow slice into the trough of the giant wave, splitting the swell as water cascaded onto the deck with crushing weight. The only thing keeping her afloat were the four watertight compartments and the water passing through the drains along the bulwark. But Círdan paid no mind as he felt the _Fëagaer_'s hull anchor upwards, the speed of her running already slowing as she met the resistance. And then it hit; the true steep of the wave.

As Círdan had predicted, the wind drove his ship onward up the wave as he, in turn, held the steering oar with both hands while bracing himself against the bulwark as the tiller tried to rip itself from his grasp. Water came overboard as the prow sheered through the wall of water and the spray from atop the wave rained down upon the deck in buckets, and he held his breath as he was quickly submerged beneath the water, only to surface in a matter of seconds.

_CRACK!_

Círdan glanced up in horror to where the sound that every sailor dreaded came from; the mast. It was still upright and he could not clearly see it, but he knew that it must have splintered and splintered badly. Already, the powerfully opposing forces of water and wind were starting to dismast her! Not a second after the thought, he heard a deep, creaking groan emit from the wood of his ship and felt her shudder as her hull fought her way through the unending water. But he watched the mast and could see the tension that would splinter it all over again. A few more of those and he knew it would be over. She was not even half way up the wave yet! He felt his ship moving slower and slower as he watched the crest of the wave come closer.

And it was now he knew she would never reach it; the force of the water finally overcame the power of the wind and he saw the mainsail flutter and die, whipping uselessly in the opposing winds now hitting it. He felt the _Fëagaer_ come to a stop and the stalemate lasted for only a moment before she faltered and began to slide backwards and downwards. Círdan held on for dear life as she picked up speed, the crashing stern sending spray and water overhead, making all the noise – already painful to the ear – now deafening. The ship gathered further speed as she continued to fall downward towards the trough and Círdan, looking towards the side, could see the water level rising as she fell. And he knew that it would be a matter of seconds before the stern broke the water level. And when that happened, Círdan knew that the ship would quickly summersault, no longer having any control or balance, being at the total mercy of the majestic wave. And from there, it was a quick, repetitive downward spiral to total wreckage. Círdan closed his eyes, unable to watch it happen, as he waited for it to come.

And then it stopped.

The backwards downward motion had stopped and spray and water ceased to come overboard from the stern. Círdan opened his eyes and stared in unfounded amazement as he watched the _Fëagaer_ sail cleanly up towards the crest of the wave, meeting no resistance at all. He looked at the sail, which was still fluttering, being driven by no power whatsoever. But she was still making her way smoothly up the massive slope. How was this possible?

_Did I not tell you to trust me?_ came Ulmo's amused voice.

Círdan took a moment to register those unsuspecting words and then groaned in annoyance as he plopped himself to the deck. Taking several deep breaths, he rested his head in his shaking hands as he waited for his pounding heart to slow down. Once certain that his voice would not come out shaking like a leaf, he spoke.

"When you said that my ship would by guided by your hand, I had thought you only spoke of my journey to where you require I go," he said, a bit harsher than he had planned – his heart still was not calm enough.

He heard a deep chuckle sound from the wave now beneath him. _And so it shall be_.

Círdan sat there, unable to speak or even think. He just shook his head in disbelief – and profound relief – as he watched the _Fëagaer_ reach the crest and sail smoothly over it in perfect rapture, as though there had been no resistance to battle at all.

O = O = O

Ëarhín stared in openmouthed disbelief as he watched the white sail fly cleanly over the crest of that devastating wave and out of sight. Just a moment ago, he had thought his heart would burst in terror when he had seen the ship begin to fall backwards. Earlier on, he had seen the wave approaching in the distance and, by the time it had reached Círdan, all he could see of the _Fëagaer_ was her sheen, white sail, a small speck in the far distance. His heart had been pounding in his chest as near despair had flooded him, knowing the only possible outcome. And now, seeing her break the crest without any effort, all he could do was stand there and shake his head in total astonishment.

"I will never argue with you again, Círdan," he murmured in awe. Absently, he turned around and began his walk back to the city; he had a task to accomplish. Whatever misgiving he had had before, it was fully gone now, for not a doubt existed in his mind that his lord's ship _was_ the Spirit of the Sea.

O = O = O

Círdan's expression changed to one of immense disbelief at the sight that met him. The _Fëagaer_ had just cleared the crest of the wave and was now gently making her way to the trough. But that was not what shocked him. What had shocked him was the sight of the calm, quiet Gulf – as calm and quiet as the ocean could be, anyway – and the bright blue sky with nary a cloud above him. He stood from the deck and looked behind him. Indeed, the tumult of the sea was still raging and black clouds were still present in the distance, but, like a wall cloud, they were cut off sharply to reveal an endless blue sky.

Now sailing the calm sea itself, Círdan sat down on a rowing bench and looked accusingly at the waters beside him. "Why?"

_None were to follow_.

Círdan bowed his head. Unbelievable, he thought, but understandable. Despite his order that none could accompany him, he knew that there was the high chance that his crew – or anyone else, for that matter – would have sailed out after him to ensure his safety. In the end, it was their right, after all. But only a storm such as that would have put a stopper on any defiance against his order.

_Go beneath deck_, came Ulmo's deep voice. _Your instructions await you_.

Galvanized, he went towards the stern and pried back the hatch in the deck, feeling exhausted. Beneath the deck, he stood there as he looked. For what, he did not know. The two watertight compartments behind him offered no answer and neither did the stretch of the ship before him, which was the sleeping quarters for two dozen or so men, with bedding and comfort to suit them. But at the far end, beneath the foredeck of the prow of the ship, a blue light was coming from the underside of the door to the helmsman's quarters.

With quick steps, his booted heels sounding on the floorboards, he grabbed hold of the door handle and entered his living space while at sea. The room, containing a soft bed, several chests and a desk for sailing paraphernalia, was illuminated by a light glow. And turning towards the head of the bed, he could not help the smile that lit his face.

"Círdan," said Ossë with a mischievous grin, "how did you enjoy that little wave of mine?"

Círdan glared at the Maia in mock anger, but Ossë's grin just grew a little wider at the unspoken message.

Círdan studied him with interest. He had never really seen him in his incorporeal form, since he very rarely appeared so before any being, mortal or immortal. Like Ulmo, his body was crafted from the water that seemed to be swirling and moving constantly within the shape it took. His hair, wild and fierce, was as deep and pure as the blue of the Sea. And he had the face of Ulmo, though of a far lesser degree.

But if there was any proof that Ossë had just created that disastrous storm, it was proven by his eyes; for they easily reminded Círdan of the lightning he had seen light the sky. And not just because of their color, but because of their ferocity, their intensity, and their power. Eyes that were now looking at him with unhidden amusement.

"My friend, Ossë," he said lightheartedly. "May I commend you on the affects of your rage?"

Ossë gave a single nod, his face suddenly as straight and serious as ever. "Indeed you may."

Círdan couldn't help but smile. "Very well, my lord; I commend you on the affects of your rage."

Ossë nodded again. "Thank you," he said with great pride of his achievement, voicing the superiority he had over this Elf, but Círdan smiled again, shaking his head; he knew that familiar act when he saw it.

"What are you doing here, my lord?" he asked.

But the Maia ignored him. Ossë peered around the compartment, taking in all the smooth, deep grains of wood of great elegance that mirrored the pattern of the outer hull. Peering around one more time, the Maia nodded in what looked like approval. "This ship is indeed beautiful, Círdan, proving the great craft of your hand, despite its shortcomings."

Círdan's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Shortcomings?" he asked with slight disbelief. Leave it to Ossë to be the first to insult his ship!

Either not hearing the challenging tone in Círdan's voice or ignoring it completely – most likely the latter – Ossë nodded in answer. He reached out and ran the fingertips of his fingers, which looked like long rivulets of a deep blue river, along the wood several times and grimaced in disgust. "I can understand none of you Elves. How could you even _tolerate_ this dryness, let alone like it?"

Círdan rolled his eyes and murmured a small, "Hence, why you live within water," and sat down on his bed in an exhausted heap. "Are you the one to pass on this said instruction?"

Ossë sat down next to him and Círdan was grateful to see that the bed remained dry. The Maia looked at him gravely and, once again, Círdan was reminded of the importance of this assignment, though he had no clue what it was even about yet in the slightest.

"Firstly," he said, "know that you no longer bear the bondage of this assignment."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "You mean that I may speak of it on my return?"

Ossë nodded. "Indeed, to any you trust to confide in."

Círdan's brow furrowed in slight confusion. "Why could I not speak of it before?"

Ossë did not answer and, instead, stood from the bed, gesturing towards the bedding. "Now, the only instruction to be mindful of is this; lie down and sleep."

Círdan stared at him. "Pardon me?"

"Aside from the exhaustion you undoubtedly feel," he said, "these words do not come from me, but from Ulmo, and he bids you to follow them. And to aid you, Irmo has come to put you under."

Círdan nodded in acceptance, finally realizing that he may not gain answers to his questions for a long time. With a sigh, he lied down, not even bothering to look around, for he knew that the Vala of Dreams could only be seen when he wished to be so. Once fully stretched out on the bed, he believed that he would fall asleep any minute, Vala or no Vala there to help. And, for a moment, he wondered why he even needed aid to sleep when it was so obvious that he would, no matter what. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of sleepiness overcome him.

"Sleep well, Círdan," came Ossë's voice. "We shall soon meet again."

And before he could even register it, like a wick being snuffed, he fell into a deep slumber, unaware of what would await him for when he awoke.

To be continued….

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><p><strong>AN:** Well, that chapter certainly caused a headache or two – I hope their pain was worth it. Only one way to find out! Please review and let me know! I'd love to hear your opinions and would greatly appreciate it. Please review! And Chapter 3 will be coming out shortly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Tolkien's world. I only own the right to express the integrity of his ideas and concepts the greatest I can. The rest is for fun.

**A/N: **for those of you who don't know, my computer crashed, blasted thing. But, luckily, my cousins (who own their own computer business) managed to take my hard drive and extract all of my personal files, including the docs for the story. Suffice it to say that that made my day. And my many thanks to **GreenGreatDragon**, **Lia Whyteleafe**, **adorkable123456**, **Tori of Lorien**, and **Glory Bee** for your reviews. They were very encouraging and helpful, to put it lightly.

**Important notice:** And for those of you who have studied deeply into Tolkien's works, I'm posting a small warning. A few things in this chapter (and rest of the story), at a first glance, may seem against canon, but I can promise you that it's not. Everything in this story is in accordance with what Tolkien wrote throughout all his books. But all of my sources will be listed at the end of the story should any of you desire to know.  
>This chapter is a little bit slower than the last chapter, but it's informative, paramount as to the later reason why Círdan is on this voyage. I hope it'll keep you interested! Remember the genre; mystery – got to set the mystery. There's not a lot of dialogue in this chapter, but if you're a fan of dialogue, there will be tons of it in the next; that's a solid promise. Happy reading!<p>

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><p>"I spent uncounted hours sitting at the bow looking at the water and the sky, studying each wave, different from the last, seeing how it caught the light, the air, the wind; watching patterns, the sweep of it all, and letting it take me. The sea." ~ Grey Paulsen, <em>Caught by the Sea: My Life on Boats<em>

**Chapter 3**

_Wake, Nówë_.

Círdan heard the deep, gentle voice penetrate his subconscious, echoing within his mind as that of a soft lullaby sounding from the end of a tunnel. And his soul stirred as it was gently prodded and touched by that powerful presence. And he began to wake, his deep, steady breaths coming shorter as he began to move his fingers and toes, all whilst absently snuggling deeper into the pillow beneath him. And with half a mind, he discovered that his eyes were tightly closed, but that was not so unusual these days. But as he became awake after hearing those words, the first thing he was becoming aware of was a deep throbbing in the side of his head and he groaned, the headache growing in intensity as his senses became sharper.

_Nówë, wake now_. Ulmo's voice came yet again, sounding sharper and louder, though containing still that faint trail of an echo.

Círdan groaned again; he did not want to wake. Aside from the headache, which now seemed to be slowly subsiding, his body felt like lead; totally dead weight. He raised his hand to his head, that effort being monumental on its own, and he massaged the headache away, the pain slowly dissipating. But still, his body felt like an exhausted heap and was not inclined to move in the slightest.

A deep, rumbling chuckle sounded right next to his ear, Ulmo's amusement clearly present.

_Come now, my child, open your eyes_.

Open his eyes? He could do that, he supposed. And so he did, that effort proving to be great, too. His vision was blurred and it was dark; unnaturally dark. Why was it dark? His room was never dark, being constantly illuminated by the night sky through the balcony. But his vision began to clear and, as his eyesight became accustomed to the darkness, he made out some details. Mainly, the thick, long planks of red cedar and the crossbeams above carved with an elegance mirroring that of the Sea. Where on Arda was he? And then, making out the smaller details, such as the narrow door and finely carved chests, he realized that he was in his quarters aboard the _Fëagaer_. Why was he on his ship?

_Remember, child_, Ulmo's voice gently encouraged, his voice coming from outside the vessel, emerging from his great Waters.

Not one to disobey, he closed his eyes and thought back and immediately recalled everything. The summons of the Vala in the dead of the night, the assignment given to him and that disastrous storm he was told to sail through all came swarming back to his mind. And lastly he remembered Ossë telling him to lie down, for Irmo had come to 'put him under'.

"Ai, my lord," he groaned again. Never before had he been placed into sleep by the Vala of Dreams, and never again did he want to, if this was what he would have to experience. To call it a deep sleep would be injustice. Indeed, never had he slept as this before and if a dead-weight body and a pounding headache were what he was to awake to each time, he never wanted to sleep like this again.

Now fully awake, he became aware of the soft, cool sheets resting on his skin and was surprised to find that he had been stripped of his clothing. Looking around, he saw them hanging from one of the supporting beams in the corner and his boots resting beside the foot of the bed. Why was he naked? He did not remember undressing.

_Ossë cared for you whilst within the Hither Lands_, Ulmo explained softly.

Círdan's confusion cleared as he sat up from his low, yet comfortable bed, the thick sheets pooling around his waist. He would have to thank Ossë on his return, for he did remember collapsing to the bed in exhaustion, fully arrayed still in his sodden clothing. Despite being a full Elf, Círdan knew that sleeping in cold, wet garments could have affected his health, if not possibly cause illness to overtake him. And judging by the sheets covering him, Ossë must also have tucked him in, caring for him as though he were a small child.

Hold on, he thought, alarm starting to flood his mind. Ulmo had said that Ossë had cared for him while _within_ the Hither Lands.

"My lord, where are we?" he asked softly, hiding well the trepidation he felt. As a master mariner, he disliked being out of control while sailing the seas and yet have no inkling of his location. And thus far it appeared that that was exactly what had happened.

_Come above, Nówë,_ Ulmo instructed, _and I shall ease your distress_.

Círdan swung his legs out from the sheets and was just about to stand when Ulmo's voice stopped him.

_Fear not, Nówë_.

Círdan's brow furrowed, not understanding. "My lord?"

_When you come above, let not fear take hold of you at the sight you will see_. Ulmo's voice was grave, Círdan could hear, as though he already knew how the Shipwright would react when he stepped on deck.

But Círdan stood and dressed, his movements slow, as he thought over what his lord had just spoken; he could not deny that it unraveled a hint of concern within him. Why should he fear going above deck? The Sea was his love and only at sea did he truly feel at home; no other place on Arda, no land of unimaginable beauty and majesty, not even Aman, he believed, could capture his admiration and desire as Ulmo's Waters did. And Ulmo knew that. It was he and Ossë, after all, who had instilled it. There was no place he would rather be, so why should he fear the sight of it?

But staying in the helmsman's quarters would not answer that. Opening one of the chests, he withdrew a delicate lantern crafted with silver, lit its wick and waited for its soft, silvery light to illuminate the room.

As he left his quarters, he became aware of something further; he was rather ravenous, though not quite to the point where the hunger was causing him pain. As he crossed the crew's cabin he glanced at the door of the right compartment under the stern and shook his head; even the hunger he felt now was quelled by the mere thought of eating that tasteless meat. But he continued and made his way up the steep, nailed-down step ladder. Above deck, Círdan closed the hatch and looked around at his, supposedly, fearful location.

And he froze.

He froze and stared.

He froze and stared in growing horror, that fear Ulmo warned him of slowly coming awake.

_Where was he?_ Círdan moved forward, circling around, staring at his surroundings in bewilderment as he absently set the lantern on the forepeak. Was he in a dream? The ship still swayed with that gentle, rocking motion and the water of the Sea extended beyond eyesight in all directions. But these waters were unlike any he had seen. They were as a millpond, eerily calm and barely disturbed by his moving ship. The only evidence that she was moving was the widening wake from the stern and the gentle ripples of water. But the water was shady, almost black despite the night sky, and it looked evil. They did not feel sinister, they only looked so. There was only the lightest touch of wind, one that he knew was not strong enough to drive the mainsail, which was proof that she was, as Ulmo had said, being guided by the Vala's hand. And she was running at a leisurely pace, not sailing even half the speed that Círdan knew she could. And he could scarcely smell evidence of salt in the air. The sky itself was as dark as could be, making the day seem as one of the blackest nights. No Moon shone in the cloudless sky and everything was eerily quiet, save for the soft breaking of water at the prow; no crashing of waves, no deep rumble of the underwater current, for all was still. And the silence was deafening.

But that was not what caused Círdan to be fearful. It was not the lack of wind, the lack of motion on the water or the lack of Moon. Not the lack of life even on the dark seawater unnerved him to a great degree, for he had seen many things in ancient days. No, what scared him was something far different.

The stars littering the sky.

And they scared him beyond imagine.

Endlessly planted across the sky, they were perfectly mirrored in the dark water of the Sea, shining brightly as all stars did. But Círdan could not recognize any of the constellations he now saw. Constellations were a required tool in a sailor's life, the mapped stars in the sky being their written map for the seas. No compass, no hand-drawn charts could guide mariners across the seas more accurately and swiftly than the constellations. And having sailed the seas for countless millennia, traveling distances further than most, he was familiar with all the constellations of the sky. Always, the stars of Elbereth were a warm, comforting sight to him, but not now, for he recognized none of them. They were strangers to him, cold and pitiless, and they told him only one thing:

He was no longer anywhere near Middle-earth.

He might have been on the other side of the World, for all he knew. His heart beat a little quicker. For the first time in his life, he felt lost, his ship abandoned at sea with no source of direction to find his way home. Looking around the vast dome of stars again, he could see not even the Star of Eärendil, and that was unnatural in itself. Absently, he felt his hands begin to shake and his mouth go dry. There were very few things that could scare him in this World, but being lost at sea as such with no means to solve it was one of them.

_I said to fear not, Nówë_, Ulmo spoke gently, and Círdan could hear the sympathy in his voice.

"How can I fear not?" Círdan whispered as he sat himself on the bench along the bulwark, staring still up at the foreign sky. Shock had flooded his system; he was lost and had no idea of which direction to travel to get back home...He was lost.

_Lost, you are not, Nówë_, Ulmo spoke soothingly, trying to douse the growing fear in the old Mariner, for said fear practically radiated from him as his inner light. _Nówë_, he commanded softly, _look at me and listen_.

With half a heart, for it seemed that he had to rip his gaze away from the foreign stars, Círdan looked down into the gentle water beside him and listened. Right away, his fear was calmed as he heard the soothing echo of the Great Music once again, his spirit becoming entwined with Ilúvatar's Song.

_You are not lost, Nówë_, Ulmo repeated softly and Círdan reached down to let his hand be gently enwrapped within the cold water. _For if you cast your gaze north, you will see your way_.

Círdan did as suggested and was, for a moment, nonplussed. And then, keenly peering on the northern horizon, he gave a small smile of relief as he barely saw them; familiar constellations. Except these constellations, now only just visible on the northern horizon, were, when in Mithlond, the constellations he scarcely saw light the southern horizon. That they appeared now on the opposite end of the star dome alone gave him an idea of how far he must have traveled. But that did not answer still his quandary over why the water was so shady, so seemingly evil.

His thoughts interpreted, Ulmo spoke gently, _Be at peace, my child, for the touch of Evil has never come here. The darkness is natural, for you sail my Shadowy Seas_.

Shadowy Seas…where had he heard that name? "Please, my lord, where am I?" he asked, wishing his voice would not shake so.

_Not long ago, in your sleep_, Ulmo said, _you have long sailed past the ruins of the Island of Númenor and now approach the Girdle of Arda. You are hours away from reaching your destination_.

Though his countenance remained calm and unflustered, Círdan was astounded at those words. He had sailed beyond Númenor, despite said island being submerge beneath the Waters? From his knowledge and wisdom of the works of the World, he knew that he must have been asleep for at least two whole months if that were the case. It was no wonder Lórien had been needed, he thought absently. Two whole months!

And now Ulmo was telling him that, already bypassing Númenor, he now approached a location he had only ever heard tales of; the Girdle of Arda. And he was now only hours away from reaching wherever it was he was destined to travel to. Though his knowledge of this part of the World was limited, he knew that he must have had long ago passed the location of the Elven city of Alqualondë. And that thought created a wedge of uncertainty. Before he had set sail, had he lied to Ëarhín? Was he, in fact, sailing to Aman?

_Nay, Nówë_, Ulmo said. _You shall not lay sight on my King's land, for you approach only the Enchanted Isles_.

Círdan was silent at those words as he looked southwest, remembering the tales he had heard from Elves in the First Age. Of course; the Shadowy Seas embraced the Enchanted Isles as the stars embraced the Moon, only exemplifying the eerie mystery surrounding the many islands. He sighed, again wondering what purpose he would serve there that the many Elves of Aman could not, being that they were far closer. Curiously, he looked down into the water suckling the hull of his ship once again.

"What do you bid me to do at the Enchanted Isles?" he asked.

There was silence, save for the gentle flow of water as he waited patiently for an answer, knowing that the Vala might just not give one anyway. And then, right before Círdan allowed his mind to drift away in the peace of the Sea, he answered.

_To obey_.

And Círdan could hear the smile in his voice.

O = O = O

The hours had passed and Círdan had spent most of them sitting on that bench, bent over with his head resting on the gunwale. His eyes went from gazing up at the starry dome to resting lovingly on the waters flowing beneath him to softly closing in their contentment. As he had observed to Ulmo, this was the perfect image of the only life he ever needed or desired; to be alone, ever adrift on the Sea in his beloved ship with only Ulmo and his vassal for company. To have beautifully majestic Waters surround him and capture the love of his heart all day long. To hear the soft waves, the under flowing current…to hear the echoes of the Great Music on Ulmo's unsurpassable creation and to feel the resultant contentment flood his veins. It was like nectar, like water in a desert. To him, this voyage was a glimpse of a perfect life, the perfect way to spend eternity, for this was a touch of the greatest homecoming he ever could imagine. What more could he need?

And in those few hours he finally had the time to examine the events of what had happened over the past few days, or the past couple months, evidently. Though Ulmo had scolded him for it, he thought back to that storm he had sailed and pondered on what he would have done had his ship been sunk. He knew that he would have tried to swim back to the harbor, even though it had been at least six miles away. But the chance of making it back would have been slim, he knew, for the icy chill of the water could well have killed him first.

His ship…at the remembrance of that tidal wave, he had remembered the heart-stopping moment when he had heard the resounding _crack_ of her mast splintering. And not a moment later, he had rushed from his seat to observe the damage.

And he had felt tears sting his eyes as he observed the splintered mast of his precious ship. As he had predicted, the damage was horrendous. Needling a meter from the deck, it extended in a diagonal, misshaped line three meters high. As wide as his fist, his fingers were able to reach into its depth their full length and he had done so almost tentatively, as though fearful that touching it would only inflict more damage. With a despairing shake of his head, Círdan had known then and there that there was no way he would be able to repair it, no way to heal her crippling injury. She was warped and, when he returned home, he knew that he could plaster it with resin, but she would never sail as smoothly as she once did before this all happened, not unless he replaced the mast with a new one. And the thought of tearing her apart to rebuild a section of her was as heartbreak to him. But then it was also heartbreak should she remain crippled from then on. With a resigned sigh, he had known that he would have to replace it. But he also knew that it was by the hand of Ulmo that she had not damaged further, and he thanked his protector and lord for doing so.

He had also wondered how Ëarhín was faring. He knew that the Sea-elf must be worrying about him, but he couldn't change that. He thought of his people, wishing them well, thought of his councilors that ruled in his stead and thought of Middle-earth's unraveling in general.

And throughout thinking all of his thoughts, Ulmo was there beside him, guiding his ship with his hand, his safe, power-laden aura and presence ever cloaking him, all the while gently singing. Or at least the Elf thought he was singing. All Círdan knew was that the Great Music carried through his Waters became louder, clearer, more prominent, no longer coming through as an echo but as a powerful resonation. And it was beautiful; sung in a language he could scarcely pronounce, it was indescribable. The voice of the Sea-elves could not even compare to its majesty, nor could Lúthien's voice, not in the slightest. No sound in Arda could mirror its beauty, nor could any sight, power, or serenity ever match the peace it created. For this was Ilúvatar's Song. And at one point, Ulmo had told him the story of Uin, the giant whale, most likely to stave off any boredom, though it had not been present, and Círdan had briefly wondered if this was what a child felt like during a story-telling. But Círdan listened in earnest, for he loved the sound of Ulmo's voice. For it was wise and deep and carried the depth of the Sea and ever made him feel free from the burden of Time. And his deep respect, fear he'd dare say, and love for the Vala, already beyond comprehension, grew ever greater.

Never, in Círdan's memory, had his soul felt so at peace and his heart so at home. He felt his mind drift away, his other senses dimming to being practically unfelt. His soul seemed to sing in tune, to blend in with Ilúvatar's Song. And his heart, he felt, beat with the rhythm of the Sea in perfect harmony, his mind enwrapped by its powerful presence. He could no longer feel the environment around him, his corporeal senses all but inept. And even if this journey came to nothing, even if it became something he wished he would never have done, it would all be worth it because of this.

_Wake, Nówë_.

Círdan opened his eyes, his mind snapping back to reality and looked cynically down at the dark water. "I was not asleep," he complained, feeling disgruntled at the interruption of his detachment from reality, not even realizing that he had entered into the spiritual realm as closely as any living Elf possibly could.

Ulmo chuckled. _You nearly were_.

Círdan had to smile at that; despite being fully refreshed after that aberrant sleep Lórien had placed him in, he would be lying if he said that he was not drifting off. He wondered how much time had passed and then dismissed the unimportant thought.

Focusing once more on the water, he gave a deep sigh. "Thank you," he said softly.

_For what?_

Círdan gave another small smile, one of contentment. "For making me happy."

_You are very dear to me, Nówë_, he said, and Círdan could hear by the tone of his voice that he meant every word. But, to his confusion, he had heard also pain in the Vala's voice, as though he desired to speak more but knew that he could not.

_Do not ponder that, child_, he said firmly, _for it is not yours to think upon_.

"Aye, my lord," Círdan said, giving a tolerant shake of his head. It sometimes amazed him still how well Ulmo knew his every thought.

_You present your mind and heart to me as an open book_, he said, a touch of amusement lining his voice.

"Aye, my lord," he said again, the smile widening. "It is only to you I do so."

_Compose yourself_, he instructed. _We are here. Fear not the enchantment of the Isles, Nówë, for you are safe in my care_.

Círdan raised his head, his neck snapping at the change of movement and he rolled it back and forth, mentally berating himself for staying in that position for so many hours. He then stood and looked over the prow of his ship into the distance beyond.

It was shrouded in white fog; a deep, clogging fog that cut off further view only a few miles out. But, when staring at one spot long enough, an invisible substance seemed to weave through the air, churning and shimmering before disappearing. Turning around, he saw that the fog went as far as the eye could see, realizing that his mind had been away from reality for some time. He might as well be sailing in a cloud. Looking southwest once more, he narrowed his eyes and saw a shadowy form begin to take shape not five miles away.

The Enchanted Isles. Or at least one of them, he thought, for one was all he could see. And it certainly did not look magical, as far as he was concerned, the _Fëagaer_ rapidly minimizing the distance from it. From this distance, even in the dark, it looked like a barren land of rock, devoid of any greenery or life, stretching for miles across his vision. But he was looking only at a stretch of massive shoreline and knew that, further inland, it was probably alive with the life of Aman.

But out in the distance, through the heavy fog, he saw a narrow, elegant peak soaring high into the sky. And though partially blinded, he could see it glimmering with multiple hues all the while seeming to reflect the starlight.

"What is that?" he asked.

_The Tower of Pearl_.

His interest was caught, but he had not the time to wonder about it, for now, almost at the shore, he saw a person standing on it, or rather three persons, all of different height and all waiting for him, apparently. And as he came closer, he made out more details.

The one on the left was clad in white, bearing a long face and a high forehead with his strong figure set off by his deep, dark eyes. His hair and beard were long and white, but strands of black still showed around his lips and ears. In his right hand he carried a long, finely crafted staff. At first glance, it seemed to aid him in his walking, for he bore the appearance of an old Man. But he stood on the shore like a silent statue, strong and tall in bearing, and stared at Círdan as he waited.

The one in the middle was the least tall of the three, and he was clothed in raiment grey as ash. His hair and beard were long and thick and as grey as his clothing. In his right hand he too bore a staff, of which he leaned on. But unlike its neighbor's, the staff was brown and gnarled as an earthly wood. Also bearing the appearance of an incredibly old Man, he looked far more aged than the others. But he also stood silently on the shore, his eyes, deep yet gentle, staring at Círdan as he waited.

The one on the right was clad in an earthly brown and, indeed, looked the youngest of the three, though bearing still a great age of Man. His hair and beard bore the hues more of auburn rather than grey. His eyes matched the color of his raiment and were alight with enchantment and mystery. In his right hand he too carried a staff much alike its neighbor's, resting against his shoulder, only it bore the smoothness and deep-set brown as that of a matured tree. And he stood on the shoreline, staring in silence at Círdan as he waited.

And Círdan stood at the prow, staring back as they all waited for the ship to be beached. Though outwardly remaining calm and unflustered as only an Elf could, Círdan became uncomfortable at the three piercing stares that remained focused on him. They did not unnerve him, they only made him uncomfortable. The grey one, he noticed, was watching him with unhidden curiosity. Círdan met the gaze, raising an elegant eyebrow in question, and the old being smiled, his amusement obvious. Though Círdan did remain unsure what three Men, mysterious as they were, were doing on the borders of Aman, for he knew that the rite of passage to the Undying Lands was barred from the race of Men. He inwardly sighed; perhaps Ulmo would relent in his amusement of keeping Círdan in the dark and answer that simple question.

_Be at peace, Nówë_, Ulmo counseled him. _Do not be discomforted, for they mean you no harm_.

Círdan minutely nodded his head at the voice he heard within his mind, feeling comforted at those words alone that touched his thoughts. He trusted Ulmo unconditionally, more so than any other being he knew. The Vala had never misplaced that trust in the past, only proving to be worthy of it, and Círdan knew that he would do so again.

As his ship gently waded in closer to the shoreline, Círdan became aware of a very unnerving sensation, a physical sensation and yet mental. It seemed to compress him, intimidate him, tempting him to cower in submission. He recognized it, for he had felt it before he knew, but he could not place his finger on it. He peered curiously at the Men – if they were Men – standing eerily still on the shore, and then he looked around at the ambiguous island and her raging cliffs. Interesting, he thought. He knew not what that feeling was that continued to grow stronger with each meter he arrived closer, but he could only equate it to the enchanted properties of the isle. The Enchanted Isles were indeed a mysterious place, and the Shadowy Seas cloaked them perfectly.

The Men on the shore, Círdan noticed, never wavered in their gaze, still trained on him, or in their stance. And they all seemed to radiate authority and knowledge. It was not until the keel of the ship grated into the shingles and smoothly slid up the beach that the three Men on the shore moved forward, the white one leading them, as they stepped into the shallow water, the ripples from their footsteps being the only thing that disturbed it.

The three of them, all silent, were walking along the portside of the hull and Círdan, seeing where they were heading, went to her waist and unlatched the entry port in the ship's rail. The Mariner stepped back to the prow and watched the one clad in white begin to haul his way up, that intense _feeling_ he had felt growing to the point to where he could physically feel it. And it seemed to squeeze him. With the prow canted up as it had slid up the beach, there was a considerable drop to the shingles, even at the waist, so some climbing was involved for the three to get aboard.

_Cast the net_.

Círdan almost started at the unsuspecting words, so riveted was he on these three, strange people. But he did as commanded and walked his way down the ship to the starboard stern. Taking the neatly folded net hidden beneath the bench, already tied off, he hauled the heavy mass over the bulwark, watching it plop with a loud splash into the water below, disappearing instantly in its darkness. Círdan wondered at the absurdity of why he had to cast the net, but he had a pretty positive inkling that Ulmo would answer that neither, so he kept silent.

When he turned back around, the three were aboard, huddled against the mast, all looking at him once again with their fire-piercing eyes and this time, he was unnerved by it, but allowed none of that discomfort to show through his countenance.

An awkward silence grew as they continued to stare at each other and, to Círdan's slowly growing annoyance, the grey clad one was still inspecting him with unhidden curiosity. What was he to say? Welcome aboard? It certainly did not seem appropriate in the Mariner's mind. And the three of them certainly did not seem like they were about to speak any time soon.

Opting to break the stalemate of the awkward silence, Círdan let go a small breath, the only outward sign of his exasperation, and he walked over to the entry port and latched it back up, feeling the stares of the three following him as he did so. With another small sigh, he turned around and met their hard gazes for only a moment or two before walking up to them. Though looking old and decrepit, Círdan easily saw the brightness of their eyes that shown like fire. He knew not who they were, but he doubted that they were simple Men, for he perceived the inner greatness they bore. And it was time he greeted them.

Some people might stand tall, their head held high in defiance of submission as a show of their pride, but Círdan had no pride in his being to even contemplate the thought of holding his head high, despite that he stood taller than all of them. Instead, Círdan bowed his head deeply, trying to push aside the weakness and insufficiency he felt in the presence of these beings, and met their three gazes without fear or wavering.

"May I inquire your names, Masters?" he asked quietly, respect evident in his tone.

The one clad in white cocked his head to the side and finally spoke, resting his regal staff against his shoulder.

"Many names I have and yet I have been given the name Curunír, henceforth you shall thusly call me," he spoke, and Círdan took an unconscious step back at the commanding power of his voice, but he felt a glimmer of respect at the wisdom he perceived in this white clad being. This was no Man, Círdan thought, his instincts of sensing the unknown perfectly honed over the long years. But he was wise, and that earned the start of respect.

Curunír continued, gesturing warmly to the grey clad one at his side. "With me is one whom also goes by many names, though, at his will, you shall hereafter know him as Mithrandir." He then gestured to the one clad in brown at his left. "With me also is Radagast, the greatest of us all in the workings of earth and beast."

Círdan bowed his head again, his countenance unreadable, though he did slightly raise his eyebrow at the grey one. So, he thought, it was Mithrandir who was inspecting him as though he were an insect.

Círdan looked to Curunír again, sensing that he was the leader of the three. "May I inquire as to why you are here, Master?" he asked, foregoing the informal route that Curunír had offered. "To my eyes you appear as three aged Men, and yet it is by my knowledge that I know you are barred from the Blessed Land. How can this be?"

Curunír was silent, his eyes peering deeply into Círdan's, seeming to read his every thought, before they hardened, though not impolitely. "Much must be done on our parts, yet silence must be kept on this journey."

Círdan nodded in understanding, hiding his disappointment and stepped aside, lightly bowing his head once more. In the end, it was not his right to know, and Círdan knew that. Curunír walked to the prow of the ship with Radagast only a step behind him. The Mariner met Mithrandir's gaze before the old one too followed behind them, sitting with them on the bench.

The ship jolted alarmingly and Círdan grabbed hold of one of the shrouds, feeling his heart skip a beat. But he realized that the ship, guided by Ulmo's hand, was simply breaking harbor. She continued to glide away from the shoreline, her wake shallow and eerie in the dark water, and when she was a hundred meters out she pivoted until the prow was once more at the fore. Círdan shook his head; never would he get use to another force controlling his ship, whether it'd be Ulmo or not.

But the Mariner was disappointed. Círdan sat down on the bench near the tiller at the stern and sighed. He had no idea what he was doing on this voyage and the three beings, whatever they were, gave no answer. Yes, he trusted Ulmo, for there was no being, mortal or immortal, he trusted greater. And he trusted the Vala on this voyage with every aspect. But still, a few answers would be nice to quell the growing confusion in his mind.

_Let your heart be at rest, Nówë,_ Ulmo whispered to him, and Círdan felt his soothing spirit touch him, it being warm and inviting. _Your mind is to not be burdened while in my care. Be at peace_.

Círdan tiredly nodded. "Aye, my lord," he murmured, once again berating himself for letting the emotions and fears of his flesh take over his trust in the Vala. He glanced at the three at the prow, wondering if they had heard the Dweller of the Deep speak.

_They can hear me not_, he whispered further.

And Círdan then realized that Ulmo was no longer speaking through his great Waters, but directly to his mind, hence the gentle whispering he heard. But still, he knew that he had done nothing on this voyage yet save sleep and sit with his mind in another world.

"What do you bid me to do, my lord?" he asked, looking down at the water. Surely there must be something he had to do.

_To obey_.

Círdan sighed; despite Ulmo's patience with him, he knew not how much longer he could tolerate that particular ambiguity. What must he obey?

_I spoke my words, child_, he said patiently, the tenderness he felt for the Elf obvious in his powerful, authoritative voice. _And I bid you to follow them; be at peace_.

Círdan gave another sigh, this one of contentment, for he was satisfied with the Vala's words. He scooted down on the bench and rested his head against the gunwale, once again letting the greatness of the Sea and her Music indwell him and take him to that place only he knew of.

And on the _Fëagaer_ sailed, back through the deep, enchanting fog.

O = O = O

Hours had again passed in which Círdan had briefly wondered how long his mind had been adrift earlier, for they were still sailing through the mystic fog. How wide were these Shadowy Seas? But Círdan was content, feeling the peace of the Waters he ever so loved, and the other three beings were still at the prow of the ship, staying as far away from him as possible. They were talking, he presumed, but he cared not; their business was none of his business and Curunír had made that quite clear. But Círdan's gaze was now cast up to the unnumbered clusters of stars, just visible through the deep mist. With such brilliance they shown and they no longer were as strangers to him, for he had already now kept to memory all of these new constellations. There was no Moon and no clouds still, just the stars. But Ulmo's powerful presence continually touched his mind.

Círdan felt his stomach growl, but again, he was not ravenous to the point where he would chew to no end on that tasteless meat.

His peripheral vision picked up movement to his right and he saw one of the old Men approach the starboard stern where he sat. He noticed that the old Man carried his gnarled staff in hand, though it seemed that the elderly chap could move swiftly at ease without it. But in his core, he perceived that it was not just a stick of great length. But he…what was his name? Mithrandir – that was it, he remembered, the one who apparently thought he was an insect. He seemed to be approaching not just the stern of the ship, but him specifically. But when he was respectably close, Círdan held his breath as his eyes widened, recognizing what that _feeling_ was that he had been bombarded with as soon as his ship had come closer to these three beings.

Power – raw power. That is what he felt. And it surged over him in waves. How could he have not placed it before? It was the same intense, commanding power he had felt when he had first met Ossë in his youth. The same power when he had first met Melian after Elwë returned. The same power when he had first met Eönwë at the War of Wrath, when he had met Uinen, Salmar, Alatar, Pallando, and Sauron in the guise of Annatar. Though nothing in comparison to the power projected by Ulmo and other Valar he had met, he now knew what this supposed "Man" was.

Mithrandir sat down next to him with a sigh of contentment. A comfortable silence passed between them while both seemed to admire the stars. Círdan decided to break it.

"You are a Maia, are you not?" he asked without preamble.

This…Mithrandir turned to the silver-haired Elf and simply stared at him for several seconds. Though his face was a mask of indifference, Círdan could see a glimpse of profound surprise hidden deep in his eyes. Then, finally, the being spoke, his voice rustic and warm, but lined with genuine curiosity.

"Yes, I am that. How came you to arrive at such a conclusion?"

The Maia's gaze seemed to pierce him, but Círdan was not cowed, too experienced and used to he was in dealing with both Vala and Maia; however, the Maia's striking gaze that seemed to light like a fire did make him, once again, feel his inferiority in comparison to such beings. It was not a fear or uncertainty, just a recognition and acceptance that he was neither as wise nor as great as the being before him.

"The power," Círdan answered simply, his voice quiet. "I became swallowed by it the closer I approached the three of you on the shingle, for its weight and intensity felt to cast me down. I dismissed it, believing it to be a remnant of the ambiguity of the Isles. But not until you had approached me and graced me with your company had I at last placed and remembered what that power was."

Mithrandir gave a small nod. "Your insight is deep, Círdan." A small, amused smile touched his face. "And yet, you have not told me everything. There are many powers in this World, yet dealing or two you must have been bestowed with by a Maia to have recognized this power for what it is, correct?"

Círdan let loose a wistful grin. "Correct, Master, more times than I care to remember. Though whether I believe it to be a blessing or punishment is determined by what mood I currently am in."

Mithrandir chuckled, understanding that sentiment. Then, once again, his curious gaze was upon the Sea-elf. "And you are not fearful of the knowledge that I am a Maia?"

Círdan thought about that for a moment. Intimidated? Probably. Respectfully awed? Certainly. Fearful? He looked at Mithrandir, his face grave, and shook his head. "No."

Mithrandir smiled. "Not even in the slightest?"

Círdan shook his head again with an exhausted sigh. "No." He hesitated and studied the Maia for a moment before proceeding. "But I do have a question, if you will permit me to ask it."

Mithrandir's smile grew with adoration. "Of course I will, Círdan," he said tenderly. "What is it that you desire to know?"

For the first time in millennia, Círdan did not feel compelled to hide his uncertainty. "My experience with Maiar has led me to believe…I mean –" He paused once again, struggling to find the right words to phrase his question respectfully. "If you are indeed a Maia, then why…?" He gestured uncertainly towards the garb the Maia wore, baffled why such a powerful being looked like a decrepit, old Man. Why do you look like this? the gesture asked.

Mithrandir smiled again, this time in understanding, as a bright twinkle shown in his eyes. "I do believe that the Valar have a sense of humor, cloaking us in these disguises."

He had expected the Elf to laugh, or to at least smile, for he did desire to see evidence of the carefree spirit that he knew had been long buried. But Círdan's eyes had slightly widened at his words, recognition quickly dawning in his grey eyes. And suddenly, the awe and admiration Círdan felt for this being intensified by a tenfold as he stared at the aged face with unconcealed curiosity.

"You are Olórin," he whispered, seemingly to himself.

Mithrandir raised an eyebrow. "Again, you are correct, for I will not lie to you, though your insight must be deep indeed if you have the skill to apply such a guess without any prior knowledge such as that."

Círdan shook his head, truly intent on studying every feature of the Maia of Manwë. "Glorfindel has spoken very highly of you in time passed."

Mithrandir tilted his head. "Glorfindel? It brings me delight to hear you speak his name. Tell me, how does he fare?"

"He fares very well," he answered. "He allows no sorrow of his first life to take hold. If you see him, you will be glad to see his strength of heart."

Mithrandir gave a warm, rustic chuckled. "I will see him," he said, "and I look forward to it. But that answers not my question as to how you knew my name."

Círdan gave a small smile. "He had once told me that, when you jest, a spark of laughter always shines bright in your eyes."

Mithrandir chuckled once more, giving an affectionate shake of his head. "As always, the Elves prove to have great acuity and steadfast memories."

Another small silence fell, but this time, it was comfortable, companionable. Círdan continued to study the Maia, letting him now be the insect, even as Mithrandir was graced by a thoughtful look and Círdan could only guess what was going through his mind. But as he studied him, Círdan became increasingly aware of the stares burning into him from the other two Maiar and it took all his self-control and discipline not to turn around and meet their gazes. But it seemed that the more he tried to ignore them, the greater they became more prominent. Círdan changed his mind; it was no longer Mithrandir that had started to get under his skin.

Evident that Mithrandir would remain in his own thoughts, Círdan once again rested his head against the gunwale and closed his eyes, allowing himself to fully relax in the sound of Ilúvatar's Song.

"I would like to ask you a question, Círdan."

Círdan's head snapped up as he registered those words. He really must stop allowing his mind to go adrift so easily, he thought. He looked to Mithrandir, an eyebrow raised.

"I doubt I have the choice but to hear you," he said, almost lightheartedly. "But I am listening and will answer to the best of my knowledge."

Mithrandir slowly nodded, his eyes narrowed and seeming to see through Círdan and the Mariner was finding it difficult to dismiss that probing gleam in his eye. His uncanny senses, already high, were telling him that the Maia was about to test him.

Finally, he spoke. "Why are you on this voyage, Círdan?"

Círdan simply looked at him, nonplussed for a moment. So much for the best of his knowledge, he thought grudgingly. Out of all the questions that could have been asked, he had to ask the one he knew nothing of, for it ever remained unanswered and thought upon in the back of his mind.

"I know not, Master," he said softly, almost in resignation. "And if it were that I did know I would speak it. But prideful I am not to answer a question with absolute certainty when my knowledge is limited."

Mithrandir pursed his lips. "Hm, very well. With your limited knowledge, why do you presume that you are on this voyage?"

Círdan gave a non committal shrug and this time did not prevent the sigh from being heard. "I presume nothing," he said. "At first I did, and part of me does still, but the Vala Ulmo put my mind to rest and I am content with his command to not ponder it."

Mithrandir gave a knowing smile, that quizzical gleam in his eyes still present. "And yet, Elves are inquisitive creatures and rarely do they stop thinking and theorizing when a question begs an answer."

Círdan furrowed his brow. "True that may be, but what is your point?"

"Are you not bothered by not knowing?"

Círdan shook his head. "I trust the Vala Ulmo, more than I trust myself, I believe. In time past, I have gained the unfortunate wisdom that sometimes not knowing is far better than knowing at all. But more than that, I have placed my life countless times in the Vala Ulmo's hands. If I cannot trust him with the smallest aspect, then in whom can I trust?"

"Hm."

Círdan looked sharply at him at the grunt, but Mithrandir's visage gave nothing away save a thoughtful expression. And Círdan had the growing suspicion that Mithrandir and the others knew _exactly_ what he was doing on this voyage. But he kept his silence; Maiar, he knew, could be just as exasperating as Ulmo when opting to be vague.

_Come below, Nówë_, Ulmo told him. _It is time for you to rest_.

At hearing the voice in his head, Círdan calmly stood from the bench and lightly bowed to Mithrandir. "I apologize, Master, but I find myself in need of rest and cannot delay it longer."

Mithrandir stood with him, a knowing twinkle in his eye that told Círdan that he saw right through the encrypted words. "You do need your rest, Master Mariner," he said with a smile. "I look forward to seeing you when you wake."

Círdan watched him go and join the other two Maiar at the prow of the ship. Immediately, as Mithrandir sat, the one called Curunír began to speak to him, the words too quiet for Círdan to interpret. And at Mithrandir's answer, Curunír glanced up at Círdan with an inquisitive look, and it was then that the Mariner knew that he _had_ been tested. How, he knew not, but he knew that he had been. Though he wished to know why as well.

Círdan did not look back as he went beneath deck, leaving the silver lantern on the forepeak. The crew's cabin was incredibly dark, but it only took a few moments for his Elven eyes to adjust before he made his way to his quarters. Once inside, he briefly glanced up at the ceiling, wondering if he would be able to hear them, and they he. He shook his head; of course they could hear him. After looking at his bed, Círdan was a tad surprised to find how exhausted he felt. He stripped down, for this was his only attire and sleeping in it would only wear it more than need be, all the while pondering of the events of the night. When he lay down, he sighed in contentment, the softness of the bed blissful as well as the powerful presence of Ulmo.

But then a wave of worry clouded him. Without opening his eyes, he asked, "Will the Vala Lórien come again?"

_Aye, child_.

Círdan nearly groaned in displeasure before he felt the trepidation fade away, as though being swept off by a hand. And he felt Ulmo soothe his mind.

_Be at peace, Nówë. You are safe in my care and no pain will greet you as you awake_.

Círdan vaguely registered the words, they already sounding as though coming from the end of a tunnel. His mind felt to be clouded and heavy, his body utterly relaxed. And he realized that the Vala of Dreams was already putting him under.

But right before he fell into the deep sleep, he became aware of something that he did not take note of before.

Mithrandir had known his name, and never had he introduced himself to them.

To be continued...

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><p><span>Slight AU factor<span>: Saruman is described in _Unfinished Tales_ to have raven hair, but I decided to go with the movie description concerning his hair since we're all more familiar with that. During the progress of the story, I had used Curunír's Mannish name, "Saruman" to identify him. But now, obviously, I have changed every occurance to his proper Elvish name to make the tale more authentic in reference to the integrity of canon.

**A/N:** All right, I know that the end of this chapter wasn't exactly a cliffhanger. And I know that the last line may not sound significant, but it plays a very prominent part coming up concerning Círdan's characterization. I hope you all stick around, for in the next chapter some questions will _finally_ be answered. As well as why Círdan was tested (and how he was). But certain discussions will be had that do not exactly make Círdan comfortable, for Mithrandir does not fear to bring up that which Círdan has never discussed with anyone before, not even the Vala Ulmo.

I hope that the lack of an exciting ending doesn't put you off and that you'll stick around. But please review! And thank you for having patience with my computer crashing. Goodness knows I didn't have any. And remember that all of my sources for Círdan's characterization and other stuff will be listed at the end of the story. But please review!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** this is getting tiresome, but lo! It must be everlasting. *sighs* I own nothing of Tolkien's world, save the character Ëarhín. Oh, and Círdan's boat. Can't forget the boat. :) Nothing else though.

**A/N:** Alright, a little notice must be posted. This chapter didn't exactly go as planned (meaning that it's ending length screwed me over). What was originally going to be chapter 4 is now going to be split into two chapters. Not a big deal, I know, just know that this chapter and the next go hand in hand with each other. And with that, I would like to give my unending thanks to **GreenGreatDragon**, **Glory Bee**, **Lia Whyteleafe**, **adorkable123456**, and **Zammy** for their reviews. You guys always make my day. And again, all my sources for all the questionable parts and/or info of this story will be listed at the end of the story.

**Notice**: Again, quite a few references in this chapter can be found in the _Silmarillion._ If you've read that book, you'll be fine. But if you haven't and have any questions, please feel free to ask.  
>And because this chapter was split in half, Radagast won't be able to play his part until Ch. 5. I know, poor Radagast. :) And the significance of Mithrandir knowing Círdan's name will have to wait until then too. This conversation simply became too long – these Maiar seem to love to talk. And Círdan loses his temper.<p>

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><p>"Wilt thou learn the lore that was long secret of the Five that came from a far country?" ~ J.R.R. Tolkien, <em>Unfinished Tales<em>

**Chapter 4**

When next Círdan awoke it was to the most comforting sensation and he smiled in his sleep. His eyes were closed and he bothered not to open them, but that delightful sensation…it felt that there were fingers sweeping across his forehead, their touch light and gentle with an ethereal stream of warmth, brushing his hair away from his eyes. He knew not who performed the act in his muddled sleep, but he turned into the tender touch, sighing in contentment. The ship rocking with the movement of the ocean was so soothing, he could feel and sense the motion of the Waters' current underneath him, and he could hear the deep thrum of the depths. And now, the perfect sleep was completed by those light fingers moving in their ceaseless, repetitive motion.

_Open your eyes, Nówë_.

And Círdan did, the fingers still sweeping across his forehead, as though coaxing him away from clinging on to his sleepiness. But, after opening his eyes and craning his neck, when he looked behind him, no one was there and that soothing touch ended. Had he imagined it? And then he inwardly shrugged; it was not the first time something mysterious had happened. With another deep sigh, the kind one would release after waking from a profound sleep, Círdan ran a hand across his face, scratching along his beard, and then followed through to rake through his silver hair. But his fingers stopped their raking the moment he felt the many tangles and knots within his hair. With a sense of foreboding, Círdan sat up, swept his hair over his shoulder and stared down at it.

"Great," he murmured, sighing this time in frustration. He briefly wondered how much he had tossed and turned in his sleep, for his mass of hair was truly a web of tangles. Throwing back the sheets, he sat on the side of his bed and began attempting to disentangle it, brushing it untidily with his fingers, briefly cursing the fact that he did not have a brush – for Ulmo had said to bring nothing – and he quickly arrived to the point of trying to pull apart the knots with his fingertips. After a few more tries, he gave up the attempt, resigning himself to having unkempt hair for who knew how long.

He stood from the bed, stretching, and went to his worn clothes and dressed himself. After slipping on his boots, he cast another disdainful look at his messy hair and worn clothes, grudging the fact that he would have to appear as this to the three Maiar when he went above deck, though he cared not for his appearance. But he could not refute that dressing and looking appropriately was at least one of the few ways he had on this voyage to show them his respect. Despite having untidy hair, which being an Elf it caused upmost annoyance, he was grateful that no headache had greeted him on his awakening. Ulmo had kept his word when he had said that he would meet no pain when he wakened, and for that he was thankful. The sleep the Vala of Dreams had placed him in this time seemed fairly normal in comparison to the last.

"Ai!"

The brief cry was ripped from Círdan's lips before he could stop it as he crumpled to the floor, doubled over in pain. His eyes tightly closed, his arms folded across his stomach, he held his breath as he waited for the aching to subside. But it didn't.

He was starving. And the hunger pains came from nowhere, crashing down on him as an unsuspecting wave. For how long had he slept, denying his body nourishment to the point where it now caused him pain? He needed to eat. He knew not how long he had slept this time, but his body was no longer allowing him to ignore the nourishment it needed. Despite being one of the Firstborn, and a hardened one at that, he knew that even an Elf needed sustenance to function normally. Taking a deep breath, Círdan stood from the floor and made for the door, though standing erect seemed to only increase the discomfort. With half a mind, he exited his quarters and crossed the crew's cabin quickly, heading for the compartment where the standard dried meat was stored. Whereas before the thought of it was repulsive, the notion of now consuming something bland and leathery such as that seemed like nectar. He had almost reached the watertight door when a powerfully deep voice interrupted his one-way thoughts.

_Partake not of that meat, Nówë_.

Círdan stopped in his tracks and, though Ulmo was not physically present, he stared at his surroundings in disbelief. He was not to eat? He had not starved like this in a long time and knew not how much longer he could tolerate it. It was not merely a problem of mind over matter, for there had been plenty a time in ages past when he had been beyond hungry and had managed to ignore it; his body was demanding food and he could not disregard it. What was he to do?

_You are to trust me, my child_. Though Ulmo's voice was still gentle and patient, it was firm, a firmness that had been instilled deep in his mind, awaking a discipline as any battle hardened warrior would be by a bellow. And that familiar firmness reasserted itself with Círdan and created more of an impact on him than the pangs of starvation did. He would obey, he would always obey. And he would trust his lord in this matter, though tears did sting his eyes at the knowledge that he would have to suffer a while longer. But he squared his shoulders and dismissed his self-pity in disgust; starvation was the least of the things he had suffered in all his life and he refused to allow it to make a whiner of him now. As he had told Mithrandir when last awake, he trusted Ulmo with his life; that had never changed in the direst of circumstances and it wouldn't change now. Besides, he thought with the mindset of one already accepting a very bitter end, Ulmo had repetitively told him "to obey" on this voyage, despite Círdan's blindness on the command. Perhaps now was the start of it.

He would distract himself; keep his mind occupied with something other than food. With that resolution in mind, he composed himself and made his way up the step ladder and through the hatch.

Of all the things amidst the ship, of the ocean, of the wind, of the Maiar at the prow, the first thing he saw was the sky and it was as dark as a night possibly could be. But it was different than the night sky when he was last awake amongst the Shadowy Seas; stars endlessly littered the heavens, scarce to be counted, of course, but now there were faint signs of passing clouds and the half-moon shone brightly down on the deep water. And the water, he saw with a smile, no longer projected that eerie calmness, but crashed and roared with the ever present waves of the Sundering Sea. Leaning over the bulwark, taking a deep, refreshing breath of the salty air in the process, he looked to the sky once more and felt warmed as he spied familiar constellations. Instead of lighting the narrow horizon, the northern latitudes now angled up further across the dome, though still leaning towards the north. And passing the constellations through his analytical mind, he judged that he must have slept, this time, for at least another month. It was no wonder he was starving, he thought grudgingly, trying adamantly to ignore the pain. Where was he now?

_You just have passed the ruins of the fallen Númenor_.

Círdan self-consciously nodded as he heard the words spoken within his mind. Judging by the constellations and his own mental map, and also by Ulmo's words, he had a fairly accurate theory on where his ship was located. And it all proved that, indeed, he was heading home to Mithlond. And with that, he was satisfied…more than satisfied.

Peering towards the prow of the ship, he once again found the three unwavering stares of the Maiar trained on him. The three still sat, their staffs resting against their shoulders, and Radagast sat on one of the nearest rowing benches. And they yet still eerily scrutinized him in stony silence, eyes as bright as the Sun, their faces inscrutable. And though remaining unflustered and calm, Círdan just managed to refrain from grinding his teeth at the frustration he felt with these beings. Yes, he already greatly respected them, but that meant not that he had to like being dwarfed by their piercing stares, which, after a while, became rather uncomfortable. But he dismissed that discomfort and bowed deeply towards them and they nodded in return before he went once more to the stern, resting against the bulwark, believing that they desired to remain alone.

At feeling a light spray of mist wisp against his face, he gave a contented smile. He was so happy, just simply so, so happy. He was still beyond astounded just how tranquil this voyage was, how the peace seemed to fill his bloodstream. Yes, a large part of it had to do with him being amongst the Sea, doing what his heart and soul loved best, but it was so much more, something unexplainable. But Círdan didn't care, for he desired still to spend eternity simply as this.

A short while after allowing his mind to become entranced by the power of the Waters, Círdan heard light footsteps behind him and felt that ever-present suppressing feeling of power grow as the footsteps neared. And he turned to find not Mithrandir, whom he had expected, but Curunír approaching him, his white hair and robes gently billowing in the light breeze of salty air and his bearing strong and regal. Standing straight, Círdan nodded his head in greeting as the Maia joined him at the helm.

"Are you well, Master Mariner?" Curunír asked, the deep timbre of his voice still sounding with a powerful resonation.

Círdan gave a single nod, hiding the meager surprise he felt at the Maia's concern for his health. He may be powerful and wise, Círdan thought, but he was neither cold nor haughty. He cared, no matter the irrelevance, and that earned him more of Círdan's growing respect. "I am well, Master. My sleep was uninterrupted and I am joyous to be out amongst the Vala Ulmo's Waters." Curunír slowly nodded, his deep eyes never leaving Círdan's, and the Mariner perceived that Curunír knew something concerning what he had just said that he didn't. But he dismissed it; all Maiar were vague in his opinion. "Is there something you bid me do, Master?"

"Nay," Curunír said. Círdan could read the hesitance in his eyes, but then it was covered by firm resolution. "Last when you were awake, you inquired of me our purpose. Yet I spoke that silence must be kept on this journey. What say you?"

"And so it shall be, my lord," Círdan reassured. "If you confide in me any words, know that I will keep them secret if you so decree it."

Curunír nodded, a mysterious light in his gaze that Círdan could not interpret, as he peered deeply into the Mariner's eyes. And Círdan opened his mind to him, felling all barriers, for he had nothing to hide, and he trusted this Curunír despite his limited knowledge of him. Though seeing resolve light the old being's dark eyes, he felt that he had just earned a glimmer of trust from this Maia. And his next words proved it.

"Yes, you will," Curunír said, almost to himself. "As you have perceived, Mithrandir had indeed tested you. I have received reassurance from both higher power and now by you; therefore, I shall hold you to your word. Hear my words, Master Mariner, for they shall be repeated not on the Hither Shores to anyone."

Círdan nodded, feeling a glimmer of delight at knowing that his inquiry was to be answered after all; he had already accepted it to be otherwise. And Curunír rested his staff against his shoulder, speaking in calm, deep tones. "You know us to be Maiar, but it shall be not so in Middle-earth. All Races will come to know us as the Wizards; this I have seen, and I request that you refer to us as the same.

"We come from over the Sea, for emissaries we are from the Lords of the Uttermost West, the Valar, of whom you serve, and who gather still together in counsel for the governance of Middle-earth. The Valar have decided to take means of resisting the growing Shadow of Sauron."

Círdan felt hope blossom in his chest at the words of Curunír. Though ever practical and wary of that what hope could bring, Círdan could help not but wonder if it would be as in the Elder Days, when the World had been young and Beleriand had yet to exist. When the Valar had come in defense of the Elves, to smite the evil of Melkor and free them of his torment. Was it that they come again?

"Nay, Círdan," Curunír spoke, and compassion and sympathy were heard in his voice. "It will be not as the War of Powers, for though great power we Maiar possess, we are forbidden, under decree of the Valar, to match Sauron's power with power or to seek to dominate or sway the Free Peoples by force or fear."

Círdan felt his heart begin to sink, but Curunír gained his attention once more. "Lose not hope, Círdan, for injustice never rules forever. Hear my words; the Valar have chosen us, for we possess eminent knowledge of the history and nature of the World," he tapped his forehead, "and of the mind and ways of Sauron. The Dark Lord ever grows in might, though with the consent of Eru, the Valar elected to send members of their own high power to contest it; us, but clad in bodies as of Men, as you had observed.

"Our objective in Middle-earth is simple, though no challenge we foresee will ever be so great; to always contest the growth of the Shadow and to move Elves and Men to beware of their peril. For long we shall go about in this simple guise, appearing as of Men already old in years, but hale in body. Among all people, we shall be received as travelers and wanderers, gaining knowledge of Middle-earth and all who dwell therein. And to _none_ we shall reveal our powers or purposes, for it is our strategy that both Man and Elf alike will see us seldom and heed us little. Only you, of all people in both Middle-earth and Aman, are permitted to know of our true purpose, our true mission. Do you now understand?"

Círdan slowly nodded, his eyes alight with thought and understanding, his mind taking in still all he had just heard. "I do indeed, my lord. You have my word that I will be silent on all that you have told me."

"Good, for I do trust you." And then he smiled a warm smile. "And I like you, for you are unlike any Elf I have ever met." He then stood straight and planted his staff firmly on the ground. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have an inquisitive mind to put at ease."

As Curunír left him at the stern, Círdan was dwarfed by a sudden doubt. It was not Curunír's words he doubted, not at all. If anything, they relieved him beyond imagine and gave him hope, a hope that had last been present when he had seen the Star of Eärendil light the sky for the first time, signifying the Valar's coming to their aid against Morgoth. No, what worried him was the possibility of other people managing to do what he had done; marking that power for what it was, identifying them as Maiar. If he had done so within a short matter of minutes, who was to say that someone else would not be able to? Based on what Curunír told him, the three desired to remain incognito. How would that work when _he_, an Elf, could so easily recognize that power? What would happen should Sauron's servants, more attuned to the powers of the World, come across it?

_Be not doubtful of his words_.

And that was another factor, he thought wryly. These Maiar were the _emissaries_, meaning that this whole plan was not of their conception, for they were only carrying it out. This was the plan of the Valar, and Círdan had no shred of doubt that Ulmo had been a part of the decision making. So, by being doubtful of Curunír's words, he would be being doubtful of the Valar's wisdom, including Ulmo's. And that just did not sit well with the Mariner. And it all came back to the simple question if he trusted Ulmo or not. And he did, so he endeavored to not be doubtful, but he had still many questions unanswered.

But Curunír had wandered back to the prow where he immediately began conversing with Radagast in quiet, curt words. Círdan thought Radagast looked unusually frustrated about something, though Curunír appeared equally impatient. But he could hear none of their words or perceive any of their thoughts. Though he couldn't help but wonder.

"You are staring."

Círdan startled and turned to look cynically into Mithrandir's twinkling eyes. Where had he come from? Círdan sighed, once again cursing his inattention, for he had not heard the Maia approach, or had seen him for that matter. He _really_ needed to stop drifting off at inopportune times.

Opting to ignore Mithrandir's amusement, Círdan cocked his head, his inquisitive mind once again turning as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Master Curunír told me that you had indeed tested me the other night. Why? And how? First you refuse to speak to me of anything and then you tell all. I mean no disrespect, yet still, the confusion is frustrating."

Mithrandir chuckled. "I love you Sindar. Unlike the Noldor, you opt not to beat around the bush with empty words." And then he sighed. "Why I tested you is very simple. It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without gaining the answer to it." Though a smile was still present, Círdan could see the gravity in his eyes. "And by accepting not knowing why you are on this voyage, you told me that you care not for personal gain in matters of knowledge. Therefore, you would not seek others to gloat that you know of something that no other does. And through that, aside from the reassurance of the Valar, we knew to trust you."

Círdan sighed and leaned against the railing of his ship, his fingers straying to his hair as he absently began to try and untangle it again. It made sense. It truly did. After all his long years of living, he rarely placed his trust in any, and those that did earn his trust had to go through many years of trial and effort. Why should he have expected the Maiar to treat him in a different manner, to trust him without testing him? That would have been abominably stupid in Círdan's opinion. At least that proved that the Maiar – the Istari, he corrected himself – were not walking into this dangerous task with ignorance and overconfidence. They were cautious and wary of all things. And if the three of them had not trusted Círdan prior to testing him, even _after_ the Valar's reassurance…well, that spoke volumes of their prudence. And Círdan felt content at knowing that that particular wisdom would shine through their actions once in Middle-earth. He looked to the prow of the ship, where Curunír and Radagast still appeared to be arguing, and murmured, "You make it sound all too simple."

Mithrandir chuckled, and there was a short pause before he muttered teasingly, "You are fighting a losing battle with that hair of yours."

Círdan grunted and tossed the hair angrily over his shoulder, crossing his arms in front of him, though his brow furrowed in confusion as he continued to observe the other two Maiar. "If I may ask, Master, what is the dispute between lords Curunír and Radagast? They look not to be on friendly terms."

Mithrandir chuckled again and shook his head in what looked like half amusement and half exasperation. "To say they are not on friendly terms is putting it lightly. In the short time I have travelled with them, _never_ have they been pleasant to one another and, by the looks of it, they are sorting their differences still."

Círdan looked at him in no small amount of surprise. "Dare I ask why?"

Mithrandir shook his head in this time what he knew to be tolerance. "On the deciding of whom the emissaries of the Valar should be, the Valie Yavanna – you know of her?"

Círdan nodded. "I have heard of her kindness and greatness of the earth."

"Very good, but be aware, the Queen of the Earth _commanded_ my friend Curunír that he had to accept Aiwendil, Radagast as you know him, as a companion. Safe I am to say that he grudges it greatly, since they can tolerate not even the air the other breathes. Though I have a theory, and I plead you to speak not of it to Curunír." He leaned over and spoke in a whisper, as though preparing to share a deep secret. "I believe that he accepted Radagast simply to please the sweet Yavanna, for she _is_ the spouse of his Master, Aulë. And at denying _her_, he would have, more or less, had to have answered to _him_."

Círdan fought valiantly to keep the smile off his face at hearing the mocking amusement in Mithrandir's voice. "Therefore, Master Radagast is a student of the Valie Yavanna?"

"Aye, the greatest Maia of earth and beast I ever have met. And his love for them is nearly as great as Yavanna's. Though," Mithrandir continued, seemingly oblivious of Círdan's amused reaction, "it has been very amusing indeed journeying alongside them to the Tower of Pearl, for never have I heard two Maiar, wise and powerful as they are, quarrel as two bickering children."

Círdan could not stop the chuckle from emerging then. At any other time, he would have not believed Mithrandir, but seeing the two Maiar argue before him now in low tones, he believed it quite readily. But despite the humor of it, he could not help but to worry.

"Is it not perilous to their duty that they are not getting along well?" he asked.

Mithrandir cocked his head; his eyes alight with concern at the worry in Círdan's voice. "How do you mean?"

Círdan hesitated, but at Mithrandir's encouraging gaze, he spoke. "Lord Curunír spoke that you will contest the might of Sauron upon arrival, and every day in Middle-earth thereafter. Will not friendship between the three of you be the wisest course?"

Mithrandir shook his head patiently. "Nay, Círdan, for though we shall travel yet together for a while, we shall take our separate paths once in Middle-earth. As Curunír spoke to you, we are forbidden to match Sauron's power with our own." He gave a nod, conceding an unspoken element. "Aye, some may argue that overthrowing Sauron's power with greater might is the wiser course of action, but you have to know the mind of your enemy. And the Valar _know_ that neither is Sauron foolish nor ignorant. He is clever by far and wise. He will fall not for the same trap twice. You are wise, Círdan, and you know that should Sauron discover and remember who we are, that we are peers of his, all of this might turn for the worst." He held up a finger. "Remember this always; an enemy hidden is far more dangerous than an enemy known."

Círdan thought about that and recognized the truth of it, beginning to see just what the Valar had in mind. They were sending Maiar, beings of their own high power, to fight Sauron, and what better way to fight the enemy behind his lines without him knowing one was there? And none would be able to report to the Dark Lord that they were Maiar, for as Curunír said, he had foreseen that all beings would come to call them the Istari. They were to act as an enemy in disguise. Understanding of the Valar's decision dawned in his eyes, and he nodded as he saw the wisdom of it. "I begin to understand."

"Yes, you do," Mithrandir smiled. "Sauron must be blind to our presence. And to see it done, the Valar clad us in the bodies of Men, bodies _real_ and not feigned, but subject to the fears and pains and weariness of earth, able to hunger and thirst and be slain. And we will age only by the cares and labors of many long years. And thus, it is our fervent hope that any enemy spies will report only our guise of aged Men."

Círdan narrowed his eyes in thought. "If you will permit my curiosity, Master," he said, "why only three Maiar? If you shall be incognito, will it be not more effective to have a larger force?"

Something flickered in Mithrandir's eyes, something Círdan could not place. And the Istar answered slowly with underlying caution. "I will not limit the number to three and I perceive not to know all the thoughts of my King, but I will confide in you of that I believe.

"We are the three emissaries sent from the West, and this the Valar did in their desire to mend the errors of old, especially that they had attempted to guard and seclude the Eldar by their own might and glory fully revealed, as such a time as you recalled from hearing Curunír's words." His eyes glazed over and Círdan knew that Mithrandir was remembering such a time, when the protection of the Eldar from the power of the Enemy could be wrought through the simplest means of their full might and power. Mithrandir shook his head, seeming to shake himself from such memories. "But now," he went on, "we are forbidden to reveal ourselves in forms of majesty or to seek to rule the wills of Men or Elves by open display of power, but coming in shapes weak and humble. We are instead bidden to advise and persuade Elves and Men to do well, and to seek to unite in love and understanding all those whom Sauron, should he come again, would endeavor to dominate and corrupt."

Círdan pursed his lips, his thoughts flying. "The opposite of Sauron's tactics," he murmured, almost to himself. And Círdan was astounded by just how opposite these tactics were – like black and white. Sauron, in his sleek guise of Annatar, had come forth as the Lord of Gifts. But the Istari would come forth while bearing nothing, carrying no form of bribery. Whereas Annatar came forth in a beautifully beguiling body, the Istari were coming in the forms of old, helpless Men. Whereas Annatar, with his deceptive tongue, sought to be in control without seeming to be, the Istari would simply advise when words of wisdom were sought or needed. Whereas Annatar used his skill and power – however subtly – to achieve his goals, the Istari could use nothing to fulfill their purpose. Círdan shook his head again. Complete opposites indeed, he thought.

"Aye," Mithrandir said, unaware of Círdan's thoughts. "As Curunír had spoken, Eru provided his counsel in this matter." He then suddenly sighed and looked to the sky and appeared to Círdan the age he truly was, beyond that of the age of Arda.

"I remember Manwë's words clearly," he said quietly, remembering the incident as he spoke. "Amidst the counsel of aiding Middle-earth, my King spoke, 'Who would go? For they must be mighty, peers of Sauron, but must forgo might, and clothe themselves in flesh so as to treat on equality and win the trust of Elves and Men. But this would imperil them, dimming their wisdom and knowledge – confusing them with fears, cares, and weariness coming from the flesh.' And yet, Círdan, here I tell you, only two came forward. Curunír was one of them, and wisely so, for great skill he has in works of hand and was regarded by well-nigh all, even by the Eldar, as Chief of my Order. He is both knowledgeable and wise and has the greatest of both in knowing the ways and workings of Sauron.

"But during all this, Manwë asked, 'Where is Olórin?'" Mithrandir smiled at Círdan. "Rare it is for my King to become flustered, but so he did at my absence. I had just entered from a long journey and seated myself at the edge of the council. And I was therefore uncertain of all that had been discussed. So I asked my King what he would have of me, for he called my name."

Mithrandir sighed, or at least Círdan thought it was a sigh. "My King said that he wished for me to go as the third messenger," the Maia spoke in quiet tones. "Never would I defy him amidst his counsel, but spoke nonetheless that I was too weak for such a task and that I feared Sauron. And then Manwë said that that was all the more reason why I should go. And then, at signs of my hesitation still, he _commanded_ me to go." He looked at Círdan and quirked an eyebrow. "I could hardly refuse."

Círdan was fascinated and he let his wonder at hearing Mithrandir's words shine bright in his eyes. His heart warmed at the knowledge that the Valar in the West still gathered in counsel together concerning the welfare of Middle-earth. For too many long years of ages past he had pondered if the Valar had forsaken the Hither Lands to chance, to its own strength (or lack of it) to defy and defeat the Shadow of Sauron when it had never been thusly conquered before. Now Mithrandir's words of the Valar's concern, of the Lords sending aid through stealth and prudence, caused a hope unfounded to blossom in his chest. Yes, Círdan had never met the Vala Manwë, King of Arda, and had no concrete reason to trust him or to believe in him or to follow him. But Ulmo, the most independent of the Valar, spoke very highly of his King when the rare subject was brought up. And Círdan saw the depth of loyalty Ulmo held for him whenever he spoke with him. And, as he would declare countless times, Círdan trusted Ulmo unconditionally. Therefore, if Ulmo trusted Manwë, then so would Círdan.

Círdan looked at Mithrandir curiously. "I must inquire you of something, Master."

"Yes?"

"I understand your hesitation of being one of the emissaries, for I too have experienced that choice. And, despite how little I know of you and your fellow emissaries, I believe not that you and Maiar Curunír and Radagast would be so foolish as to walk this journey half committed. What took it for you to believe in the wisdom of your King's decision?"

Despite the innocence of the question, Círdan did his best to hide his suspicion and, he would admit, growing worry. He liked this Mithrandir, but "like" had nothing to do with trust, he knew. But with every word that came out of this old being's mouth, his respect grew as well as his trust. But his worry unraveled from something the Maia had said. He had no doubt that Mithrandir was fully committed to this mission, or that he was fully capable of taking on such a daunting task. But did he have to be convinced of Manwë's words, that the emissaries had to be mighty, despite that they must forego that might? He wanted to believe in this Maia, he truly did. And he was surprised to find out just how humble Mithrandir was in the confidence of his own strength and value. That, to Círdan, spoke volumes of his honesty and clarity, for he had seen that humility was the solid foundation of all virtues. And he knew that Mithrandir had the strength and power for this mission; it practically radiated off of him. But, Círdan thought, was Mithrandir's humility hypocritical? Did he know that he was being humble, simply waiting for words to make sure of his self-confidence and to increase it? He didn't want to believe it. It was the last thing he wanted to believe. But one never knew.

Mithrandir was studying him in silence and Círdan was unsure if the Maia – Istar, he corrected himself again – knew of his thoughts. But his gaze was considerate, as if he was truly giving serious thought to Círdan's question.

"What took it for me to believe that?" he asked with a smile. "Merely a minute or two of isolation. Despite that Manwë commanded me, thereby which I hardly had a choice, he permitted me to give it thought, to see the wisdom of it." The gravity of his gaze bore into Círdan's eyes as he spoke solemnly, "And still, I have yet to see the wisdom of it." He crossed his arms and Círdan, to his amazement, saw the all too obvious uncertainty in his posture. "My King spoke the truth that we, their emissaries, would have to forgo any might and power we possess, for, if we were to fight with might and power, he would have undoubtedly sent his herald and my friend, Eönwë. In strength and might, no Maia can contest him, save Sauron himself. Therefore, I thought, what was it we were to battle with if not with our power and might?

"However, afore I could ponder more on it, Eönwë joined me in the gardens and spoke with me, reminding me that imperfection is not our personal problem, but just a natural part of existing. Reminding me that we, alike all others, face many defeats in our lives, but never are we to let ourselves be defeated by that knowledge. He empathized with me, for we remembered time long passed and its bitter trials that always had seemed to foreshadow despair and defeat, and yet had been always conquered." He smiled jestingly at Círdan. "For too long a time he has spent with my King, I do believe. But then he revealed his trump and spoke words to me that I could not refute, words that made me realize that I was already fully committed to carrying out this mission." He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "I accused him of being devious, but he denied it."

Círdan looked at him in a new light, with a new admiration and a new understanding. "What did he say?" he asked quietly.

Mithrandir chuckled. "He spoke, 'You _will_ do this, for you love them too much, you fool'."

Up went Círdan's eyebrow. "Them?"

Mithrandir smiled warmly. "You, the Eldar, the Elves of Aman and Middle-earth. If my love for the Elves can be called a weakness, then it is one weakness I am grateful for. Doubt me not, Círdan, when I say that love recognizes no barriers. If there is anything that would strengthen my resolve, to absolve my hesitancy, and fortify my yearning to defeat the Shadow, it is my love for the Free People, to see them released from bondage. Eönwë knew that. My King knew that. And I knew that the opportunity granted through this difficulty to aid them was too great to deny. And I fully believe that once I become acquainted with the race of Men, I will love them just as greatly. Besides," he added with a bright twinkle in his eyes, "I do believe that Eönwë was ready to hit me over the head for doubting so much."

Círdan grinned at that, not even having to contemplate his relief. Whatever answer he would have expected, it was the best answer he could have received. And from within, a glimmer of deep trust had been born and Círdan professed that his trust for Mithrandir would only grow more. Words, he knew, could be emptier than any other form of commitment could be, but it was the conviction and underlying warmth of the words that convinced Círdan to believe them. The greatness of deception was inconceivable, but Círdan knew not anyone who partook in deception who could look him in the eye and speak such words with such conviction without him perceiving the falsehood; save Morgoth, of course, who had deceived all. Not even Sauron, when he tried, had been able to deceive him, and he knew that Mithrandir was not trying to either. And that created a much larger sense of contentment than he could have imagined.

Suddenly, rather randomly, Círdan's stomach let forth a deep growl. Círdan froze in the moment of silence that followed, growing more awkward by the second. And the Mariner didn't even have to look at the Maia beside him to know that Mithrandir was barely suppressing a chuckle. He could practically feel the amusement radiating off of him. And sure enough, when he turned to Mithrandir, his eyes were dancing with laughter, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I apologize for that," Círdan murmured, casting his gaze down at the water. Despite his ancient age, he was still amazed with how embarrassing it was when someone heard one's stomach growl.

"I do believe your stomach wants food," Mithrandir said, his mirth all too obvious in his voice.

Círdan gave what he thought was a small smile, though it turned out more to be a grimace. Yes, he could see the amusement of it, but he was still in too much pain to join in with it. Really, he found it difficult just managing to stand erect, to not double over and clutch at his stomach. Yes, the conversations with the Istari did distract him from the pain, but it was still a close thing.

Círdan nodded in answer to Mithrandir's words. "I have eaten nothing on this journey."

Mithrandir looked at him, that indiscernible flicker in his eye once more. "Why ever not?"

Círdan turned narrowed eyes on him suspiciously. That question had been asked a little too innocently, in his opinion. But before he could comment on Mithrandir's irritating ambiguity, another welcoming voice spoke, this time within the depths of his mind.

_Draw the net_.

Círdan furrowed his brow. The net? The net! Círdan just managed to stop from rolling his eyes, but didn't bother to withhold the sigh of frustration. With a cynical, begrudging gaze, he glanced over to the starboard stern to where the large net had been cast off. Sure enough, its twisted web of braids was straining against its belaying pins. How, with his mind on the state of his stomach, could he have forgotten about the net?

"Círdan?"

Círdan's head snapped back around at the concerned voice, only to find equally concerned eyes looking up at him. He was about to ask what cause there was for concern when he remembered that, when Ulmo now spoke, none of the Istari could hear him.

He gave a wan smile. "I know not, but I think it is time for me to draw the net."

Mithrandir smiled in return, resting his staff between two of the shrouds. "Allow me to help you."

Círdan, with Mithrandir only a step behind him, went over to the starboard gunwale and grabbed hold of the twisted net. He gave it an experimental tug and felt its resistance caused by an incredible weight. He furrowed his brow. What could have a simple fishing net caught? He was too far out in the ocean and over too deep water to catch anything. But after taking a deep breath and bracing his foot against the railing, he heaved on the net. The weight was monstrous, proving to be a match for even his Elven strength. And then, another pair of hands came in as Mithrandir too heaved, and the fishing net quickly surfaced the water, as though all the Maia had done was pick up a package. Círdan glared at him and shook his head. Well, that certainly proved that though Mithrandir looked as an old Man, he definitely didn't bear the weakness of one.

But then he looked down at the fishing net, which was half-way out of the water and felt his eyes widen. To the brim, it was filled with what he knew to be sea urchins and oysters, of a variety of colors and sizes. Quickly, while Mithrandir held the weight of the catch, he twisted the leather-plated ends of the net and wrapped them around and through two belaying pins, the weight of the net allowing the complex knot to hold.

Mithrandir chuckled as he looked down into the vast overflow of shellfish. "Well, it certainly appears that Ulmo has kept your stomach in mind."

Círdan simply shook his head, staring still at the shellfish in shock. This blessing of food was, without a doubt, from the intervention of Ulmo. Such shellfish could only be found within the bay, on ocean floor so shallow that he could swim the depth to fetch them. But now he was so hungry that he cared not how he obtained them, only that he could eat them. Moving quickly, he took one of the buckets stored beneath each rowing bench, which was standardly used to bail water by the relief crew, and hung it from its rope handle on one of the many belaying pins. Mithrandir, who had sidled back over to rest against the stern, had completely passed from his thoughts and he pried back one of the air tight lids of one of the two large barrels of water roped and secured to the deck, revealing fresh, salt-extracted drinking water.

Reaching within the net, he removed an oyster as large as his palm, all the while withdrawing the short, one-edged blade from his boot. Leaning over the bulwark, he inserted the flat of the blade between the compressed shells and worked the knife around to the hinge muscles, cutting through the excess tissue. It was not a pleasant process, he knew, but it was easy. Immediately, as he loosened the oyster with his fingers, the murky liquid spilled out and into the ocean. Normally, for an average seaman, to shuck an oyster would take half a minute at least. But Círdan, with experienced hands, did it within a matter of seconds. Pealing out the meat, he discarded the remains of the oyster into the ocean, quickly rinsed it out in the barrel of water, and popped it into his mouth. It may have not been much, but he savored the taste of it, deliberately ignoring the chuckling he heard behind him. He repeated the process a few more times, allowing the raw meat to quell his hunger to the point of tolerance, before he began to drop the meat into the bailing bucket while discarding the oyster shells into the water.

Círdan continued with the shucking, dropping the meat into the bucket, his hands executing the movements on their own without any thought of his. Such a small feat was so natural to him that he needed not to even think about it. He looked up at Mithrandir's silent figure as he worked, who was watching him work with a thoughtful interest, and Círdan decided that the lull in their conversation was the best place for him to voice the doubt that had previously dwarfed his mind. "I have a question, Master."

"Yes?"

"When Master Curunír spoke with me, he told of your desire to remain incognito. I recognize the wisdom of your guise and your method of how you will fight Sauron. Yet both Curunír and you spoke repeatedly of your objective to remain hidden, that all beings be blind to your true origin. When you came aboard, I recognized that power for what it is. What will happen should other people identify that power as I did? What then?"

Mithrandir shook his head, confidence in his eyes. "Worry not of it, Círdan, for the perceptions of the race of Men are inept to such things. Though yes, the Firstborn may do as you suspect, for Elves are bound to Arda and therefore are somewhat entwined with the powers indwelling it. But they shall place it not."

Despite the reassurance in his voice, Círdan was still doubtful. He was uncertain if the Maia was aware of it, but the raw power the Istari radiated he could almost physically feel. And it was so foreign and inconceivable that he knew of nothing else an Elf would be able to compare it to. Círdan thought his doubt must have been seen, for Mithrandir shuffled over and stood next to him, smiling reassuringly. "Worry not, Círdan, for when our power is felt in Middle-earth by those who dwell therein, even amongst Elves, scarce few will be able to tell. Though valid it is, you base this concern on your _own_ experience. Over the many millennia of your life, you have dealt and interacted with both Vala and Maia. And such sensation you have become accustomed to, as greatly as you are used to the smell of the ocean. It would be a concern if you were _not_ able to place our power for what it is."

Círdan shook his head, his concern only growing. "You speak the truth, Master. But I am not the only one to have dealt with Ainur."

Mithrandir smiled gently, sweeping Círdan's wayward hair back over his shoulder and rested a hand on said shoulder. "Touched I am by your concern, Círdan," he said softly. "Never has an Elf been concerned for me. Yet it is not from only your experience you are able to recognize higher power of Maiar and Valar. Even amongst Elves are you ancient and old. Things unimaginable you have seen and you know of power unconceivable. You are wise and insightful, and your senses have grown to being beyond the mundane. This I know you know."

Círdan spoke nothing and his discomfort could not be hidden as he scrupulously avoided the Maia's gaze. But Mithrandir squeezed his shoulder and Círdan could feel his comforting warmth enter into his being, quelling his distress.

"Trust me when I say, Círdan," Mithrandir continued calmly, "that you are the _only one_ who will be able to place it." He looked up and furrowed his brow. "Save for Glorfindel, mayhap, for he has met me and knows me well. But the few Elves who feel this power will wonder at it, but _not_ be able to name it, unless we tell them. Do you remember that Curunír spoke that he had foreseen that all will come to know us as the Istari?"

Círdan nodded, reaching down into the net and extracting this time a sea urchin, cutting a round opening into the top and scooping out their tongues before rinsing them and placing them in the bucket. "Aye, I do recall him speaking that. What has this to do with your guise?"

"As I spoke, all shall _feel_ our power." He lightly shook his head. "But they shall understand it not. Though cloaked we are in the bodies of Men, it is from that _feeling_ they shall know that simple Men, we are not. In all eyes, ever will we remain a mystery to them; thereby they shall call us the 'Wizards', for no other explanation will come to them. No other word to explain the mystery and seemingly 'magical' properties that will cloak us wherever we go." He squeezed the shoulder again. "Aye, they will know we are different, yet they will know not _why_."

With a short sigh, Círdan went back to shucking oysters. "Your words do grant me some relief. Believe me, Master, I doubted you not. And your words have quelled my concern. But forgive me when I say that I believe you are wrong, for I believe that _some_ Elves, aside from Glorfindel, shall eventually realize of what origin you are."

Mithrandir quirked an eyebrow. "Oh? What Elves would they be?"

"I have confidence you know their names," Círdan said. "One is the Lord Celeborn, who at times dwells in the forests of Lórinand beyond the Hithaeglir, realm of King Amroth. He is the same Celeborn of Doriath, a great Prince of the Sindar, and the wisest Elf I have ever known or met, and of those there are many. Another is Celeborn's wife, Lady Galadriel, of whom you know I am sure, for she did live in Aman. And where her husband travels, so does she go also. Another is King Thranduil of Mirkwood, son of the late Oropher, once a lord of Doriath." He furrowed his brow in thought. "Another whom I believe will realize who you are is Elrond Half-elven."

"Son of Eärendil?" Mithrandir asked with a knowing smile.

Círdan returned the small smile. "How did you know?" He had an inkling of what the answer was anyway, but it never hurt to ask.

Mithrandir's smile grew, a smile born from a good memory. "In the short time I spoke with Eärendil, all he would speak of was his children." He shook his head in amusement. "After speaking with him, or listening to him speak, more correctly, I feel I know his twin sons as well as he does." He looked curiously into Círdan's eyes. "Why think you that said Elves will know I am a Maia?"

He gave an uncertain shrug. "It is a suspicion, nothing more, for Celeborn, Galadriel and Thranduil all once lived in Doriath, and were therefore acquainted and familiar with the Maia Melian. It is my presumption that not will they only feel your presence, but also remember it."

Mithrandir nodded thoughtfully. "And Elrond?"

Círdan fell silent, his eyes clouding over with a dark memory. "No, he met not Thingol's Queen, but he did meet the Maia Eönwë when he and his brother were summoned to make their eternal choice." No matter how many years passed, Círdan believed not that he would ever forget the darkness and heartbreaking despair that had filled Elrond's eyes and hung as a dark cloud over his being when he had come to terms with the fact that he would never see his brother again, in this life or the next. And the blatant pain that Elrond had not been able to hide had struck Círdan to the core, making him grieve the eternal separation of the twins.

Mithrandir gave another thoughtful nod, running his fingers over his beard, and the Shipwright was grateful that he would not discuss the dark memories he knew the Maia saw in him. Instead, Mithrandir carried on with the conversation, as though nothing else had been conjured. "You theory has validity, Círdan. Yet still, worry not. Though the Elves you speak of may well guess we are Maiar and believe in that thought with all their might, _never_ will it be confirmed." He looked gravely at Círdan. "As Curunír spoke, only you shall know who we are and of our purpose."

Círdan studied him for a moment and gave a single nod of his head. "Then I shall trust your judgment, for your insight is greater than mine."

"Stop."

The command came suddenly and Círdan looked over at Mithrandir in confusion. The old being was looking at his hands, or more so the oyster shell as large as his hand in them that he had just been about to discard.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Give me that."

His eyes were still glued fervently on the oyster shell and Círdan handed it over to him in a state of bafflement. Mithrandir took the large shell in both hands, inspecting both the outside and inside, including its slime-coated sheen. Círdan shook his head, his brow furrowed. Just why did Maiar behave so oddly at the most random times? But the Mariner watched in interest as Mithrandir used some water from the barrel and a corner of his robes to scrub the inside of the shell clean. And stepping back, he lowered the shell face-up onto the last rowing bench, treating the shell as though it were a fragile treasure. And Círdan watched the shell, now resting on the bench, gently waft back and forth with the movement of the ship.

"There," Mithrandir said, a whole weight of satisfaction filling his voice, as though he had just accomplished some great, exhausting deed.

And Círdan simply stared at him, completely baffled. Had he just missed something? "What?" he asked.

"Nothing." At Mithrandir's enigmatic smile, Círdan knew then and there that the Maia would never tell him. And he barely refrained from rolling his eyes; did all higher powers find it amusing to keep him in the dark? Ulmo certainly seemed to. But Mithrandir pointed to the shell and spoke gravely, "Do _not_ touch that shell."

Círdan was silent, his brow furrowed as he looked from Mithrandir, to the shell, and back again. "What?" he asked once more with a hint of incredulity.

"Do _not_ touch it," he repeated patiently.

Círdan looked at the shell again; there it sat, as solid as can be, all the while gently rocking. Why wasn't he to touch it? It was a shell. Was it supposed to do something? Or was Mithrandir simply testing him again? The Mariner looked back at Mithrandir, hoping to find some shred of evidence that he was jesting, but Círdan was surprised to find that the Maia's eyes were very serious. Círdan inwardly shook his head; Mithrandir truly did not want him to touch the shell.

Círdan sighed aloud, not even bothering to hide his confusion. "Very well, I will do as you command and touch it not at all." From long experience, he knew it was simply better just to let it go.

Mithrandir smiled. "Good," he said. "Now I wish to inquire you of something you mentioned earlier. Come." He gestured with his hand towards the opposite bench than the one the shell was resting on. "Sit with me and quell your hunger while we speak."

They did so and Círdan took the bucket with him. As soon as he sat, he started eating both sea urchin and oyster, the rich taste that encapsulated the essence of the ocean erupting on his palate. Raw shellfish may not be the most scrumptious thing to eat, but amidst his hunger, it was as a feast.

"When you spoke of Elves who may perceive our origin, you spoke of Mirkwood."

Círdan looked up when he heard the barely concealed concern in Mithrandir's voice. "Aye," he said. "Mirkwood is the realm of the Silvan Elves, and her King, Thranduil."

"Aye, as you spoke," he said. "Yet amidst the council of the Valar, when told we were of the shaping of Middle-earth, it had come to our knowledge that Oropher had led an assemblage of Elves, amongst them his son, across a trek to find the lost kin of the Teleri. Successful, he had been, and his kingdom was thereafter called Greenwood the Great." Mithrandir cocked his head. "If indeed Thranduil took up his father's throne, why is such a majestic place called Mirkwood?"

Círdan closed his eyes as he felt a shadow pass over him, a dark cloud of worry and memory of all evil still that dwelled in Middle-earth, it being most prominent in a forest once majestic and great. "I know of what you speak," he said quietly, "for Thranduil did take up his father's throne. Greenwood the Great it once was, but is now seen and referred to as Mirkwood by all, for darkness has partaken of her life."

Mithrandir's brow furrowed, his eyes glinting with an emotion unknown to Círdan. "Darkness?"

Círdan nodded solemnly as he looked down at the remaining shellfish; the rest no longer looked appetizing amidst their new talk, so he set the bucket aside and tried to push his sorrow for the Greenwood away. "Aye, Master. Darkness. Every day now is a fight for survival for the Wood-elves. Like an inkwell spilt over a map, the darkness is slowly growing and spreading across the vast forest. And just this past decade –" Círdan stopped himself just in time. This Maia made him too comfortable, he thought grudgingly. He spoke to freely. How could he describe this accurately when he knew not how to even describe it to himself?

"What is it, Círdan?" Mithrandir asked softly. "What has happened?"

Círdan stood from the bench and approached the bulwark, leaning on her gunwale, too weary to even try to withhold the uncertainty in his posture. "I know not with certainty," he said. "To this day, my thoughts ever are occupied by it and I am nowhere still closer to solving it." He paused, gathering his thoughts and finally went forth, trying to describe as best as he was able. "Yes, darkness now indwells Greenwood the Great, so horrendously that it is called now Mirkwood. In the fortress of Dol Guldur some great evil has taken residence, only I know not what it is. In person I spoke with Thranduil and he heeded my warning. But yet I have to receive any notice of what has happened, if anything has."

Mithrandir joined him along the railing, leaning on his gnarled staff. "Doubt not your words, Círdan, for I believe they are correct. Only the residence of great evil can emit a force so powerful that it burdens Elves valiant as your Woodland kin to fight for their lives daily." And then he smiled, the reassurance in his eyes affecting Círdan as it was meant to. "If it quells your fear, Círdan, know that upon our arrival in the Hither Lands, once I make my journey to Greenwood the Great and ere I go back again, I will investigate it." His smile grew. "And should it be you remain uncertain, I will tell you what I find."

Círdan gave a wan smile, yet said nothing, for he perceived that Mithrandir knew of his relief at the Maia's reassuring words. He only hoped that the same reassurance and hope of Mithrandir's arrival would subdue the ever present worry that occupied Thranduil's mind. Yes, the Woodland King was potent in both strength and resistance, and ruled with wisdom and a fierce valiance that enabled all his people to be loyal. But the darkness was growing and Thranduil was neither ignorant nor inexperienced to know that the fate of his people was dire. Perhaps Mithrandir's expertise would aid him in that struggle, Círdan thought.

But he would discuss it no further. He knew that fate unraveled with its own will and nothing one endeavored to do could stop it. Besides, he thought with a grudging, inward smile, if he continued with these melancholic thoughts on darkness he or any other Elf had not the power to control, he suspected that Ulmo would berate him once more for his disquiet.

_Indeed I would_.

The slight smile broke through to the surface; he couldn't help it. Though the merest trace of humor could be detected, the Vala's voice was weighed down with gravity and Círdan knew that he was serious. He wondered still to no end why Ulmo had bidden him to obey his command of being "at peace", but if he had taken the time to question everything the Vala commanded of him, he would have been dead a long time ago. Walking into a situation with blind trust was usually the only thing that would get one out of it.

"Why the smile?"

With a grace born of long practice, he smoothly changed the subject. "My thoughts tend to go astray while amidst the seas. And yet," he continued before Mithrandir could speak, "I ask you to forgive my curiosity again."

Mithrandir shook his head in a tolerated amusement. "No forgiveness need be asked for, Círdan, for never will that day arrive when Elven curiosity dies." He turned to smile warmly at the Mariner. "What is it you desire to know this time?"

"Nothing of relevance," he said. "I perceive that, despite that people will be confused by you, you will be greatly welcomed among all the Free Peoples. If you mind me not asking, what words will you speak to convince them to accept your leadership?"

Mithrandir blinked. "You presume that I will take a role of authority."

Círdan raised an eyebrow, the only outward sign of his slight surprise. "Will you not?"

Mithrandir shook his head, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully and dimmed with gravity. "Nay, Círdan, I will not. I speak not for Curunír or Radagast, but I will take no head of any association, of any movement of resistance against the Shadow. I will advise them as I am bidden, but I will take no authority."

"Why not?" Círdan asked. "None will refuse you, for as Curunír said, you possess eminent knowledge of the history and nature of the World. They will desire that knowledge, and the wisdom you have long borne." Círdan tilted his head slightly in thought. "In fact, I say with upmost confidence that some people, whether they would be Elf, Man, or Dwarf would request of you to lead."

Mithrandir nodded, conceding the point. "Aye, they most probably will. And I will give them the same answer I give you now, for it is simple; I will be bound by no duty, save what was assigned to me. To nothing I will be bound, no matter the words spoken to me."

For reasons unimaginable to the human mind, Círdan felt something fierce, something red flicker inside him at Mithrandir's words, an anger brewing that he had not felt in a long time.

"You desire to have free reign," Círdan said quietly, a tad gratified with how composed he managed to keep his voice.

"Aye," Mithrandir nodded. "Once in Middle-earth, I will thereafter do what I judge needs to be done to accomplish what I am bidden to do. And I will allow no duty to restrain me in any way from doing so."

"The act of free will," he said in a tight voice.

Mithrandir looked over at him sharply, his brow furrowing at the barely concealed fury in Círdan's voice. "You are correct, yet I have angered you with my words, Círdan. Why?"

Círdan shook his head, clenching his jaw and he tried – he really did try – to push the anger and resentment that had been buried for millennia, to force it back down into the place where it had remained forgotten, ignored at best. But it was in vain; he couldn't stop the fury, not this time, and it boiled over past his control. It had nothing to do with Mithrandir opting to be free from the burden of leadership, but rather the fierce conviction he spoke with when he had said he would be bound by nothing. It was a statement he fully believed, a statement already engraved in stone and that he would follow to the last letter. And that conviction struck a chord deep within Círdan's memory, bringing to surface another being that had said and believed the exact same thing.

He kept his gaze straight forward, not wanting to meet the Istar's piercing gaze. "You speak of the act of free will," he said in a tight voice. "You speak that you refuse to take part of anything in Middle-earth that will restrain your mobility; that will be defined by boundaries."

Mithrandir stared at him in silence, his brow furrowing in what Círdan knew was confusion. "Yes, and you have practically repeated every word I said. But I see in your eyes that you are angry not at my refusal to be bound by duty in Middle-earth. How have my words angered you?"

Círdan gestured hopelessly with his hands, as though wishing that the answer would have been obvious. "Did not Sauron himself rebel against this fact? Did he not have the same idea in mind that you speak of? Did he not despise the boundaries – the restrictions placed upon him by the Valar and thereby opted to defy them openly in order to act upon his own free will? Did he not curse the Valar, denying their wisdom in the forbiddance they set? Rebelling even the boundaries of Middle-earth and the natural order of life, since they would limit him? And yet, you have the same idea in mind; to refuse any boundaries that would restrain you, just as Sauron did."

Mithrandir shook his head, patient as could be, something that infuriated Círdan. "It is not the same," he began.

"Yes it is!" Círdan said firmly. It wasn't quite a shout, but it was close enough. He was furious, and he felt the rage strike him to the bone, erupting after so long a time of being contained. "You speak of free will; that you refuse to be bound by any rules, by anything that would limit you! By anything that would take away your free will to do as you judge best!" Now he was shouting and he cared not in the slightest. And Mithrandir's calm composure amidst his accusations only made him angrier. He opened his mouth to speak, but Círdan continued on, ignoring the minor irrationality he knew his words contained.

"All beings, I have learned, save Eru, are restrained by some boundary. Sauron rebelled against this fact. It matters not the origin that he refused. After leaving the confines of the Valar's vicinity, he relished the _freedom_ he obtained. As had Morgoth. They simply liked not being bound, just as you like it not! Damn all evil, even the Noldor rebelled against this fact! For they trusted in their own cursed pride and limited skill, denying the wisdom and strength of the Valar!"

Mithrandir remained silent as Círdan carried on with his tirade, his countenance calm and unflustered as ever. And seeing this calmness, Círdan took a few deeps breaths and closed his eyes, willing that rage to go away, to go back where it had long been buried. Rare it was for him to lose control of his temper, to let slip his rage, but the redness still colored his mind, blinding him from seeing the irrationality of his words.

He knew the irrationality was there, but he also knew that the validity of his accusations was greater than the irrationality of making them. It mattered not what the duty was; duty was duty and the more duties one burdened himself with, the more limited he became, if he were responsible, of course. And Sauron, he knew with absolute certainty, once he had obtained a glimpse of his freedom, a shred of the endless possibilities when one could do as he pleased, had unleashed his raw power and might. And many others he had known, some even the Elves, had fallen for the same misconception of a promising paradise. And now, to Círdan's ears, Mithrandir was adamant about following the exact same routine, refusing to be bound by any duty, no matter how much one begged it of him, all in order to remain free. But Mithrandir's soft voice drew him out of his thoughts.

"What do you wish to know, Círdan?"

Círdan glanced up into Mithrandir's unruffled façade. Despite how calm he looked, his grey eyes were hard, their light shining brighter than ever, and Círdan knew then that the Maia was angry. Though it appeared that Mithrandir's own control was far stronger than his. But despite how calm and patient he remained to appear, his eyes remained as hard as stone, like chiseled ice, and Círdan found no compromise there; Mithrandir demanded an answer and Círdan was all too happy to give one.

Without wavering, he looked into Mithrandir's hard gaze. "How do you know?" he asked, his voice just tempered below shouting again. "How do you know that you will fall not in the same trap? How do you know that you will follow not the same path Sauron did once you taste your freedom?"

Mithrandir continued to stare at him, his gaze hard and unrelenting. But Círdan could be just as stubborn, so he took part in this battle of wills, waiting for an answer. But Mithrandir remained silent.

To be continued….

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><p><strong>AN**: I know that Círdan's moment of outrage might have seemed a little out of character, but stick around for the next chapter to find out how and why it was _not_. What will Mithrandir's answer be (for we all know he has an answer)? How will he convince Círdan that he won't do as Sauron did? Because remember, he's the only one of the Istari who ended up not doing so. Stick around to find out. And how will Círdan react when he realizes that he just yelled at a Maia he already greatly respects? And in the next chapter, a ton of more matters are discussed, among them being the significance of Mithrandir knowing Círdan's name, the history of Sauron from a Maia's perspective, and much more. And, of course, Radagast gets a part.

Like it? Hate it? Please review! I'd really appreciate it. And the next chapter, remember, is the second part of this one. Please review!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for full disclaimer.

**Notice:** There are major references to the _Silmarillion_ in here. If you have any questions, please ask! Again, if you've read the book, you won't have a problem. But if you haven't, a lot of things in this chapter may not make sense. In this chapter, a lot discussed may seem unimportant and irrelevant to the plot, but I can promise that it is _very _important for the purpose of the story.

**A/N:** I think it's kind of funny that, despite the summary of the story, we've yet to hear anything about Narya, why Círdan is on this voyage, or even Círdan's "insanity". But we will, starting in the next chapter. In this chapter Radagast gets a part, Mithrandir talks, Mithrandir pulls rank, Círdan regrets he ever came on this voyage and wishes he could just go back to sleep. With that, I would like to graciously thank **Zammy**, "**aredhellith**", **Lia** **Whyteleafe**, **GreenGreatDragon**, **Mia**-**philosephet**, **Sadie** **Sil**, and **adorkable123456** for your reviews. I love you guys! Happy reading!

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><p>"Deep in the ocean I am cast away, where innocence is burned in flames…" ~ <em>Iron<em>, Woodkid

**Chapter 5**

_Without wavering, he looked into Mithrandir's hard gaze. "How do you know?" he asked, his voice just tempered below shouting again. "How do you know that you will fall not in the same trap? How do you know that you will follow not the same path Sauron did once you taste your freedom?"_

_Mithrandir continued to stare at him, his gaze hard and unrelenting. But Círdan could be just as stubborn, so he took part in this battle of wills, waiting for an answer. But Mithrandir remained silent._

And as the deafening silence of Mithrandir's grew, the red haze clouding the rational part of Círdan's mind gradually faded, as smoke in the wind. And despite the iciness of his gaze, Mithrandir's eyes remained ever patient. Furious, and yet patient, if so possible. And the calm of his façade remained still unflustered. With neither moving nor batting an eyelid, he continued to merely stare at Círdan, the action so simple and yet the gaze so penetrating and intense that it shook Círdan to the core. And Mithrandir's silence spoke more words than any that could have been uttered verbally. And the patient ferocity of his gaze was infused with deep understanding, as though he could see right through Círdan. And he needed not to utter a word to convey his displeasure and challenge to speak more.

But quite clearly, Círdan heard the message unspoken as though it had been shouted in the silence. And swiftly, the sizzling tension in the air melted away, as if it were never there, as Círdan broke the Maia's gaze and looked out to the water. His body, tense with fury to the point of breaking, visibly relaxed as the Mariner closed his eyes and exhaled a deep breath. And though he appeared simply tired, he barely managed to stop the horror he felt within from being seen in his face. And opening his eyes, he stared out to the water unseeing as he studiously avoided the Maia's gaze that lit with both fire and ice. But the horror he felt within was unfathomably great and he thought that it was by a miracle's interaction that he didn't break from it. What had he just done? The question seemed to echo within his mind, questioning the reason for the appalling disrespect he had shown. And shame at his behavior welled up within.

"Círdan."

The soft, rugged voice shook him from his thoughts and he looked into Mithrandir's grey eyes. The ice-chilling anger was gone, now replaced with a solemnity deepened with age, and he gave a tired smile. "Calm down."

Círdan looked at him in what seemed half disbelief and half self-disgust. "Forgive me, Master," he said, barely able to get the words out past a whisper, for still too shaken he was from his atrocious outburst. How dare he do something so deplorable, and unto one he had grown to greatly respect and like at that? And unto one who he knew deserved better at that. Mithrandir had done _nothing_ to deserve his wrath. "Forgive me. I know not what came over me."

"You were angry."

Círdan gave a humorless laugh. That much was obvious. Rather quickly, he switched his gaze back to the ocean, anything but looking into eyes that read him like a book and looked all too calm and forgiving. "It matters not if I was ready to murder," he said, the self-loathing he felt encrusting his words. "Any anger I felt should have been kept within, and dealt with in time once my mind had cleared." Taking a deep breath to slow his racing heart, he closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I spoke out of line and accused you with words ill-chosen. Such disrespect you deserve not, and yet you bore the burden of my loss of temper. For that, I apologize and ask your forgiveness."

His keen ears picked up the faint signs of a silent sigh, one delivered with weariness. But Mithrandir shook his head. "No forgiveness need be asked for, Círdan."

"Aye, it does," Círdan argued, wishing time could go back by nearly five minutes. "Too old am I and set in my ways to lash out in such a way. For millennia I have had no such loss of control."

Mithrandir gave a small chuckle. "It matters not how old you are, Círdan. All beings are prone to sudden fits of fury. And more cleansing is a fiery tongue than a serpent's tongue."

Círdan shook his head. "Still, you deserved it not. Please, forgive me."

Quite adamantly, Mithrandir grabbed hold of Círdan's chin and turned his head towards him, forcing his attention. "Listen, you stubborn Sinda. I will not forgive you," he spoke clearly, "for there is nothing to forgive."

Círdan refrained barely from wincing at the memory of ice-chilling eyes. "I made you angry."

Mithrandir nodded, conceding that point. "Aye, I was angry," he said wryly, "for no one has ever dared to compare me to Sauron before. But," he added before Círdan could go on a further trip of self-loathing, "I know you were angry not at _me_. And you know that also. You were afraid," he said simply. "Within the fury of your voice, I could hear the fear in your words. Angry you were, not at me, but at the injustice you have long had to live with, from since the dawn of time. And that anger long buried simply blinded you."

As Mithrandir let forth the softly spoken words, Círdan grew even more still, the worry growing in his eyes as his brow furrowed. "How knew you that?" he spoke, his voice scarcely audible. But the fear unfounded at the Maia's words palpitated in the air around him.

Mithrandir smiled sympathetically. "As you spoke, you lost your peace. And as walls mighty and stern, that barrier was cast down, and in your eyes I saw the fear you had long kept within. Besides, though spoken with anger, your words have merit."

Skeptical was then Círdan's gaze. "Do they?"

Mithrandir gave a single nod and his bearing seemed to fall under a heavy weight, the solemnity in his gaze making Círdan wary. "Know I do that your hastily spoken words were not delivered in the hope of proving me wrong, but out of fear that it would all happen again." Despite the indifferent mask upon Círdan's visage, the truth struck home in his grey eyes and Mithrandir gave a sad, little smile. "Blind I am not to see how your fear was stoked from my words. For you are correct; Sauron, in the taste of his independence, relished the freedom beyond the Valar's endorsement. And the Istari, as free agents beyond the duty assigned unto us, have the right to act independently in accordance to our own policies in resistance to Sauron. Whoso can say that we will relish not in freedom as Sauron did once free of the confines of Aman?"

Círdan gave a small wince, and it was only from millennia of congealed temperament that he didn't start to wring his hands or sigh. "You have labeled my fear and have done so with kindness. Believe me though, Master, that I spoke in the trouble of my heart and meant not to insinuate you would follow the same path."

Mithrandir gave a knowing smile. "Yes you did."

Círdan returned the slight smile, wondering if how he felt equated to that of a child when he was caught sneaking sweets. "Not deliberately."

The smile grew. "My friend, how could I blame you for directing condemning words unto me when it was out of simple worry and concern for Middle-earth?" he asked warmly. "Ill-founded would such condemnation have been on my part. Forget not to mention that I would have stooped to the level of an Elf," he gently teased.

A smile touched the corners of Círdan's mouth, for he appreciated the jest to try and cheer him. He really did. But the self-disappointment was greatly prominent within. "Yet still, my outburst was inexcusable."

Mithrandir gave him a quizzical look with a curious smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Why deem I that, through your anger, I had seen a glimpse of who you once were?" he murmured in something akin to wonder, so quietly that it might have been spoken to himself.

Círdan heard the question and felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. But the Mariner didn't answer the question; he needed not to, for Mithrandir had hit the nail on the head and Círdan knew it. The Maia had indeed seen a glimpse of who he had been, for Círdan remembered a time when he had been more fierce, more quickly prone to action and reaction, more participating and more aware of the beauty around him. More _alive_. Círdan was drained and draining, and he was frightened since he knew not what from. The only thing that had ever grown more alive was his deep love and longing to be amongst the Sea. All else dimmed and was dimming. It was not that he no longer cared for Middle-earth, for he loved her and would serve and reside within her unto the ending of the World if so needed. He felt to simply lack the energy, the motivation and strength to simply move, to even keep his eyes open. He knew it not to be his age, for Elves did not age as Men, but he still did not know why he felt like this. And as Mithrandir had said, he used to be different, but no more.

"Círdan." The Maia's gruff voice snapped the Mariner out of his gloomy thoughts and he, again, berated himself for drifting off so easily. But Mithrandir looked at him, eyes calm as a millpond but firm with determination, their fiery ferocity willing the Mariner to know he spoke the truth. "You doubt me no longer, I know, but still I will answer your question. How know I that I shall not follow Sauron's example? The answer is simple." He shrugged helplessly. "I know not. However, I _believe_ that I will not. Understand this, Círdan. Bound by the Valar I am not, for I serve them _willingly_; conversely, Sauron did not. Sauron respected not the restrictions the Valar placed upon him, but I do. Sauron relished not the thought of returning to the Valar and serving them as he was bidden to. But I," he said with a yearning, anticipatory smile, "look forward to doing so, for once I have accomplished the task given to me, that day unto me their arms will be open in homecoming."

Círdan couldn't help but grin at hearing the barely concealed excitement and compassion in his voice. And Círdan felt any sliver of fear of Mithrandir turning to evil be snuffed out, like the flame of a candle, for Mithrandir had just spoke of the most significant difference between him and the Dark Lord. Loyalty was the deepest foundation in the unraveling of the World and Mithrandir had made clear how the smallest change of loyalty could askew one's path. And Mithrandir loved the Valar and served them with love in his heart. Mithrandir fought for them; Sauron fought for himself, and the motivation behind the actions proved to be the greatest difference. Firm would Mithrandir stay in his decisions, but flexible in his approach to them.

"As you spoke, Sauron rebelled against the Valar," Mithrandir went on, "for his corruption was beyond grace and correction." He held up a finger. "And corruption is the key word, for his corruption ensued before we sang Arda into existence, and so was done from the influence of Morgoth." He slowly shook his head, his eyes seeing so far away into distant memory unfathomable to Círdan. "It was subtle, Círdan, so subtle that none knew of Sauron's corruption until it was too late. Perhaps, if we had seen it sooner within Eä, proper measures might have been taken to stop it."

Círdan furrowed his brow, peering at him curiously. "When was it you knew that Sauron turned traitor?" This was a tale he had yet to hear, one only derived from counting lore and rumors whispered as ages passed. Never had he heard one of higher order so willingly speak of it.

As a question unimportant Mithrandir waved it aside. And in the recesses of the mind Círdan knew he had misjudged; reluctant and too wounded still was Mithrandir to speak of such betrayal in light ease. "Gone is the relevance of when we knew," he said, "for in error we were too late in coming and nigh on despaired when we did. Already his influence had reached past his own Maiar. And in secret those subtle words were whispered into Sauron's ear, for too perceptive and intelligent he was to be deceived through any other means. And afore we were bidden to put forth Ilúvatar's Song into the creation of Arda, Sauron had already passed the point of recovery."

Círdan thought upon what was spoken and felt a glimmer of surprise at the simplicity of Sauron's fall. "Pardon me for saying so, but I am rather amazed at how simple it was."

Mithrandir shrugged. "Be not so, for as sweet words whispered in Fëanor's ear kindled great fire and desires within his heart unfounded, so Sauron had learned to spend his spirit in envy and hate, coveting the flame and youth of Arda, taking part in all vast works of Morgoth and in the deceits of his cunning." Mithrandir looked at him wryly, though the depth of his gaze was as solemn and sorrowful as ever. "All starting from a few subtly whispered words."

Círdan smiled satirically at him, though the smile was genuine in his eyes. Never had he thought of it as so, that all minds could be deceived in similar fashion. "Are Maiar and Elves that similar?" he asked, almost jestingly so.

Mithrandir chuckled warmly. "Aye; so different in appearance and origin we are, and yet so alike. Though strong minded and strong-willed, of feeling every emotion are Elves capable." He gave a wan smile. "As are Maiar. Take, for example, you and me. You possess loyalty I see, astounding loyalty – first to Ulmo, then to Middle-earth and your people that dwell therein. And I; I am loyal to my King first and foremost. Loyal I am not to the Elves, but to my love for them, for nothing shall make me desire to befriend the Elves greater. With jealousy, the Valar and Maiar became covetous of the Silmarils' light after Morgoth destroyed the Two Trees, and Fëanor became jealous of the Silmarils after Morgoth took them. Likewise, Ossë, your friend, is unfathomably jealous of the Elves of Middle-earth, for enraged he does become should any leave his domain."

Círdan gave a warm smile at that, his mind turning thoughtfully towards his irrepressible friend on the Hither Shores. He briefly hoped that the Maia was withholding his rage from his Havens in his absence. He didn't want to arrive home to find that his graceful ships had been damaged.

"Elves are prone to deception, as Celebrimbor and the smiths of Eregion were," Mithrandir continued. "Maiar too are prone to deception, such as when Morgoth had convinced us all he had a change of heart after released from the Fastness of Mandos. Some Elves desire power, as the daughter of Finarfin thirsts for power. And it was because of Sauron's desire for power, for control that he in might grew. The Maia Ossë, too, in the beginning, sought after power, for he had joined Morgoth in his rebellion against the Valar."

Círdan's eyes snapped over to him in astonishment, alit heavily with shock unconcealed. "What?" It was all he could say.

Mithrandir gave a knowing smile. "Aye; in the days of old, to Darkness did Ossë turn, but he turned back, for too wise and intelligent he was to be deceived."

Círdan minutely shook his head in profound astonishment. "Never had I heard the merest whisper that he had done so," he murmured. And he spoke again to Mithrandir. "Why did he succumb to darkness? For too long in him have I seen unfathomable loyalty to Ulmo and to your King."

A shadow passed over Mithrandir as he seemed to withdraw into a subtle gloom. "Such a time as that is of what I spoke to you, the Valar's fear at knowing Morgoth's hand passed beyond the servants of his will. Amidst the creation of Arda, Morgoth could not subdue the Sea, and hated it thereafter. So, as an attempt to obtain control, he endeavored to reel Ossë into his allegiance with the promise of all the realm and power of Ulmo as a reward, should he serve him. And a great reward it would have been, for the spirit of Ulmo runs in the veins of the World. And at Ossë's hands, great tumults arose from the sea and wrought ruin to the lands, and Ossë laughed amid the terror of his storms. But Aulë the Smith feared for the wellbeing of Ossë and called for him to stand before his lord. And through the words of Ulmo, his eyes were opened and crimes pardoned and he returned to his allegiance, remaining faithful thereafter." He looked into Círdan's shocked, nearly horrified gaze and smiled reassuringly. "All is now well, though speak not of it to him," he warned. "As most Maiar, he is enraged and unforgiving still of the crimes Morgoth committed."

Círdan looked down into the wake of his ship that continued to break within the flouncing of waves, his mind disturbed. "Never would have I imagined, though that does explain his delight in violence and why he will rage in accordance to his own will."

Mithrandir nodded. "Aye; his delight in violence has never truly departed from him since that day." And then he gave a warm smile. "But Ulmo was forgiving, which brings me back to my point of how we are alike, for some Elves are also forgiving, just as my dear friend and fellow Maia Eönwë declared forgiveness of the Noldor. Elves can become enraged, as Fingolfin did when he challenged Morgoth, and need I speak more of Ossë's rage? And that the Valar and Maiar sent us as emissaries show they are capable of love, sympathy, and fear. Need I go on, Círdan?" he teased. "Identical are the tempers of our souls, cloaked only in different origins. Have not Maiar eyes, hands, emotions, senses, passions? If you jest with us, do we not laugh? If you anger us, do we not become enraged? If you sadden us, do we not mourn? If you betray us, do we not hurt?"

Círdan smiled appreciatively. "When showcased as such, I suppose that Elves and Maiar are not really different at all."

But though he enjoyed the conversation with Mithrandir and felt a sliver of peace and wonder within, he could deny not that, in his mind, a part was still disturbed with this new knowledge of Ossë. If Mithrandir were anything but a Maia, a being knowledgeable in the history of the World of which Elves could not even begin to guess, Círdan would not have believed him. But in his heart, Círdan knew it to be true, no matter whom the words came from, for Ossë's violence renowned he had always pondered on, on how it was kindled. A place in his heart Ossë still had, but Círdan knew not if he would ever be able to look at Ossë in the same light again.

He sensed more than saw movement behind him. And when he turned, there before the cloven mast of the ship stood the one they called Radagast. And as the earthly Maia looked upon the rent wood, his fingers flitted light and soft over the impairment. And the beat of Círdan's heart quickened as he saw him do this. And ere he could hinder his feet, they carried him with swiftness granted only unto the Elven race to the Brown Wizard. Though he would lay not a hand on such a being, they went before him in helplessness as worry creased his brow.

"Please, Master," he spoke as he stood alongside him. "Touch not the mast, for a wound it is still upon my heart." Irrational he knew this demand was, but the fear indwelled him that further damage would only be rent at the smallest touch by any hand.

And Radagast smiled, keen to douse Círdan's fear and withdrew his hand from the wood marred and splintered. "Be calm, Master Shipwright," he spoke, his voice pure as mountain-air and smooth as a wild-wood stream. "Keen I am not for your wroth. And the fear of your heart is warranted, for mine own soul wails and weeps bitter and far at such wounds inflicted on life of the earth." He then stood tall and bowed his head. "But you, Captain, are master of this ship, and in accordance to your will I would heal her of the death blow dealt upon her."

Wide wonder shone in Círdan's eyes, mingled with greater disbelief. "How is it that you could heal her?" he asked, his voice straining with hope barely concealed.

The smile upon Radagast's face grew. "Of such wonders I am bestowed," he said. "Of the greatest strength, love is the foundation. As your heart lay with the Sea and your ships, so there your hands are Master, as are mine in the life of earth and beast."

Círdan cast his gaze upon the great splinter once more and his fingers trembled as he touched it, light and tentative, for he remembered the heart-stopping moment as he came to accept that he would have to build the mast anew. He then turned back to Radagast. "Please, Master," he spoke, uncaring of the pleading of his tone. "Whatever price you demand I will pay. Just let her be crippled no longer."

Radagast rested a comforting hand on Círdan's shoulder. "I will heal her, Círdan," he promised, "and no price will I demand." He looked to the prow and then to the rolling swells around him, his gaze unfocused and absent, and still he stood as, in the breeze, his hair wafted. And after a moment long and intense, he looked back at Círdan, that surreal mystery alight in his eyes once more. "Be at peace, Shipwright, and no further let your mind muse on her hewn mast. Afore you step upon the shore, she will be healed."

To heart Círdan took Radagast's words, and he felt the first glimmers of peace concerning the end fate of his ship, peace not felt since before he set sail into that storm. But ere the Mariner could utter any words of thanks, Radagast the Brown had left him at the mast and stood alongside the gunwale of the entry port. And as a statue, he stood looking out to the endless swells and did not return to Curunír's side. And Círdan turned his focus to the White Wizard that stood at the prow, with such an intense aura that he might have been bearing the ship along its course by willpower alone. But stiff was his spine and tense his shoulders and, though calmness he radiated as did his peer clad in brown, enmity hung in the air above his white head. All this Círdan saw and rightly deduced that anger existed between them still and Círdan deemed it wise to not intrude, even in thought.

"This ship in indeed beautiful, Círdan," Mithrandir spoke as the Mariner joined him once more along the stern. The Maia's gaze was cast up at the sheen sail, alight with thought and wonder. "I believe not even the white ships of Alqualondë could surpass her in beauty and grace." He gave a teasing smile. "King Olwë, I deem, would be jealous."

"I thank you, Master, for such kind words," Círdan said. "But beauty is beheld differently through each eye. The _Fëagaer_ was built only when my heart could endure the ache no longer of _not_ building her. And with song and my hands she was built. And my hands were taught by the teachings of the Vala Ulmo and Master Ossë. If any deserve your praise, it is not I, but they, for they taught me well."

Mithrandir shook his head with a chuckle. "Your modesty may just be your downfall one day." The smile then became solemn and sincerity shown in his eyes. "Though I am neither mariner nor master of ships, I am not blind, my friend. My eyes are as keen as ever, and I deem this ship more beautiful than even _Vingilot_." He then gave another smile full of jest and pride. "Of you the Valar speak often. And well known are you even in Aman for your craft, for those that sail to the Undying Lands fail not to speak highly of the ships that had borne them."

If Mithrandir saw the naked trepidation light Círdan's eyes at the mention of the Valar speaking of him, which he did, he did not mention it. For Círdan's shoulders had tensed at those spoken words and for all his millennia of living, he was incapable of hiding the worry it stirred within. But, with practiced ease, Círdan kept the conversation veered away from it.

"Again, I thank you," he said, his voice unnaturally even. "I took great pleasure in aiding Eärendil in the craft of _Vingilot_. For so long I had placed thought on the design and scale of the ship that youthful excitement flooded me when finally it could be crafted."

Mithrandir cocked an eyebrow. "For _so long_ you had placed thought on the design and scale of the ship?" he repeated in confusion. "How is it that you knew you would have to build her?" Afore Círdan could speak to explain the error of his casually spoken words (in his mind, anyway), comprehension dawned in Mithrandir's grey eyes and the Mariner knew it was too late. "You possess the ability to foresee?"

With a sense of dull resignation, Círdan gave a nod, one small and absent. In emphasis of the stillness of the night, a solemn silence passed and Círdan believed his wordless answer to be the end of the conversation. But it was not to be, for when he looked over into the aged mask of Mithrandir, he was surprised to see something akin to sadness swimming in his eyes.

"For what length of time has such a curse been burdened to you?" he asked quietly.

A small, morose smile touched Círdan's mouth despite his darkened mood. And he rested along the gunwale, leaning on his forearms overboard to let his hair stream out in the salty breeze, as he contemplated what Mithrandir had just said. Of those who knew he had the Sight, few and far of Men and many among Elves (for rumors and beliefs traveled past his reach), a gift of great blessing they described it as always. Even among the common folk of all races the Sight was equated as a great gift when such fore-knowledge was brought into discussion. A deep inkling passed through Círdan's mind on the depth of wisdom he perceived this Maia possessed, for Mithrandir had known how to equate the Sight perfectly; a curse...he could not describe his foresight as anything but. Foreseeing a comeuppance of greatness, weariness, horror or devastation, knowing it was to come no matter one's interaction…how any sane being believed that to be a gift, Círdan knew not. To spare innocent lives of impending disaster or doom, action could be taken. But it only tempered the end that was to come, for all foreseen came to pass. Perhaps Elrond and Galadriel and those of equally younger age saw it sometimes as a gift since they were innocent of all he had seen and experienced, unacquainted with the true burden of the Sight. But he also knew that such naivety was born from the fact that they foresaw nothing in comparison to the revelations delivered unto him every day. True, not every vision foretold death and despair, but they could all be connected, with the result being the darkening growth of the Hither Shores. Never did he despair himself, accepting fate as philosophically as the next. But in comparison to the glory of what it once was Middle-earth was now chilled and shadowed. And having to foresee it and then see it come to pass, knowing that it was doomed to, was draining.

He was weary and oh so very tired.

Mithrandir cocked his head to the side, a slight worry in his gaze. Minutes had passed in melancholic silence, and his Elven friend had not yet answered him. "Penneth?"

Before Círdan could stop it, a snort had burst from him and he chuckled helplessly at the absurdity of that word. And he doubled over the gunwale, burying his head in the crook of his arm.

Mithrandir watched as the Elf before him dissolved into chuckles with something of bemused enjoyment. "Did I speak something amusing?"

Finally regaining control of himself, he looked up to the stars and slightly shook his head. "Yes, Master, you did." A sense of curious wonder overtook his voice, as though marveling at something he had never realized before. "Never in all my days of living have I been called that."

A sense of grief seemed to overcome Mithrandir at the words before his eyes dawned with understanding. "You awoke at Cuiviénen." For if indeed he had, there were none to look upon him as young.

It was not a question, it was a statement. And Círdan saw no need to confirm it with anything other than a nod. "Of the first few to awake," he murmured absently, seemingly to himself. He snapped out of his daze and turned an appreciative eye on Mithrandir. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"For what, Mariner?"

A wistful longing glazed his eyes. "For making me laugh," he said gravely. He shook his head. "I can remember not the last time I had laughed with such triviality. To feel such carefree delight is a balm to my soul."

Mithrandir gave a smile of warm delight as the amused twinkle returned to his eyes. "Either way, _penneth_, you have yet to answer my question."

Círdan gave a small grin. "For how long have I had the Sight?" he asked. "Since the Great March of the Elves in the Years of the Trees." He looked up at the stars filling the darkness, silent and sure, their bright fire mirrored in the depthless ocean. "Never has one asked me this," he said, his eyes flitting with grey emotion as his memory sought the depths of the hoard, "and with much effort it takes to recall. But par your request, I will answer. I trust you know of how came Thingol to meet his wife?" Mithrandir nodded. "Well, the Vanyar and Noldor had gone on with the March after Thingol had disappeared, for he had gone to speak with Finwë ere he did. The Teleri halted their journey in effort to find him and both Thingol's brothers and I led the searches, but in all for naught. Amidst the Teleri waiting on the shore at our bidding, the floating isle had been raised from the depths and the Vanyar and Noldor transported across the Great Sea."

Círdan let loose a sigh mingled with both regret and sorrow. "Long was it in waiting for the Teleri for the return of the floating isle to then bear _us_ to Eldamar. And in that time we were joyous, for Ossë had then befriended us and sat upon his rock every day, teaching us all manner of sea-lore and sea-music." He shook his head at the memory. "But never did the island return, and in our impatience we returned our thought and skill back to the making of ships. And amidst our waiting, we continued to look for our Chieftain." Indeed, he added within his mind, their hands had been itching to craft their ships once again. For long ere Círdan and the Teleri had come to Beleriand they had developed a craft in boat-making; first as rafts, and soon as light boats with paddles made in imitation of the water-birds upon the lakes near the first homes at Cuiviénen. And later along the Great Journey, their ships had become larger and stronger, he himself taking the greatest lead in their invention and skill, thereby earning his name of "Shipwright". And only upon the shores of the Falas had they learned the making of the greatest ships through Ulmo and Ossë.

Círdan shook his head once more; he _had_ to stop drifting off in the middle of conversations. "Thingol's brother Olwë eventually gave up the search," he continued. "But I went on searching, for I loved him too greatly to bear losing him. Indeed, all the Teleri had been reluctant to cross to Eldamar without him." He gave a weary sigh. "And it was then doom fell upon me, for amidst my latest search Ulmo had finally come again for the Teleri, after a hundred years in waiting. The island of Eressëa was raised and Olwë and the Teleri boarded it. And the Teleri that remained on the shores were the ones Ossë had persuaded to stay. When I finally returned with the Elves who had searched alongside me, Tol Eressëa was already being borne across the Sea."

And Círdan looked out to the Sea now, his eyes seeing in the past to that day and he spoke low in monotone, his voice eerily quiet. "On the shore I had stood, looking forlorn out at the Sea during the night, and though far away, I had seen a glimmer of light upon Eressëa ere it vanished into the West." Círdan stopped his words with suddenness and caught his breath, but he continued before Mithrandir could question his hesitation. "It was then that I saw, in a vision perhaps, a shape like a white boat, shining above me, that sailed west through the air, and as it dwindled in the distance it looked like a star of so great a brilliance that it cast my shadow upon the strand where I had stood." Wonder had entered his voice as he saw again the brightness of that star and he smiled at the memory. "And when Eärendil sought my help to build him a ship to sail into the West, it was then that I knew I had foreseen the flight of _Vingilot_. And a childlike excitement had driven me. From that night on the shore as I watched Eressëa vanish, my Sight has been never-ending."

"In my sympathy for your plight, these are ill-tidings. Incredible your story is, _but_," Mithrandir said, and his eyes narrowed, for he _had_ marked the hesitation, "not all you have told me."

"I spoke enough," he retorted severely. He then bowed his bowed with a sigh. "I ask your forgiveness once more. Thin is my restraint and quick my temper this night it so appears."

Mithrandir rested a hand on his shoulder. "All is well, Shipwright. Long have such events been buried and such memories do not bring the greatest remembrance to light." He then cocked his head. "And yet, I have just realized something. As we spoke of the darkening of Greenwood the Great as you broke your fast, you spoke that evil took up residence in Dol Guldur."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Mithrandir mirrored the facial expression. "You spoke you know not what it is; only that the evil is real. You then said that you spoke in person with Thranduil, who in turn heeded your warning. _He_ heeded _you_, not the contrary. You foresaw the residence of evil, did you not? And alas, you sought to warn the king."

Círdan nodded, his reluctance to continue such solemn talk obvious and Mithrandir heeded the silent plea of doing so in his eyes. And the Maia nodded also as he murmured, "And do behold the rising of the Sun, for all pieces shall fall in place ere the end." Círdan looked at him in question and Mithrandir flashed a dim smile, but spoke no more of the cryptic words. "How did Thranduil receive your words? For I know the Sight, even amongst Elves, causes uncertainty and foreboding."

Círdan eyes alit with something akin to pride. "Thranduil is no fool," he said, the confidence in his voice the greatest Mithrandir had heard from him yet. "Impeccably stubborn and fierce, aye, but no fool. He possesses great wisdom and had already taken heed of my warning ere all the words left my mouth. I know he places no delight in the Sight, but never has he placed his own interest before the safety of his kingdom. Unlike some Elves I know," he added with a touch of asperity, "Thranduil takes heed of the hard lessons of history and therefore sought to remember my words, however farfetched they may have sounded."

Mithrandir ran his fingers through his beard and grunted. "What do you mean he had taken 'heed of the hard lessons of history'? I deem these are tidings I have yet to hear."

Círdan flashed him a begrudging look; despite his respect for the Maia and enjoyment in conversing with him, he was reluctant to keep digging up memories from a past he'd rather forget. And the Istar was too perceptive for his own good. "In many times passed," he spoke quietly, "I had sent warning that was never heeded. As an example, I sent word by my friend Gelmir to Orodreth of Nargothrond ere its fall in the First Age. For as I stood alone on the shore, to me my lord Ulmo had appeared and spoken; 'the Evil of the North has defiled the springs of Sirion, and my power withdraws from the fingers of the flowing waters. But a worse thing is yet to come forth. Say therefore to the Lord of Nargothrond: Shut the doors of the fortress and go not abroad. Cast the stones of your pride into the loud river, that the creeping evil may not find the gate.'" Círdan glanced at Mithrandir, who in turn saw a sliver of ire pass over the Mariner's face under the moonlight. "On Gelmir's return I was told that Orodreth had been shaken by my message, and in his worry he sought the counsel of Túrin Turambar." He gave a humorless laugh. "According to Gelmir, Túrin had scorned me, saying that if my message had any purpose it would have come sooner. And then he had mocked me, declaring that I knew nothing of the wars, to leave them be and to go and play with my ships. And the warning went unheeded."

Both brows of Mithrandir went up. "That was a tale unknown to me. And look what good their dismissal did for Nargothrond; it fell into ruin."

Círdan nodded. "And that example is but one of many."

"Hm…much anger it caused you I would suspect," he spoke.

Círdan shook his head. "No, I was not angered, save for Túrin's and any other's mockery of me and my people. Those who took no heed rejected only the visions and dreams placed upon me, and any words spoken unto me by the Vala Ulmo. Just as Gondolin fell due to King Turgon's shunning of the Vala's warning, so did Nargothrond fall at Orodreth's dismissal." Círdan closed his eyes and ran a hand wearily over his face. "Aye, a curse the Sight is upon me as you stated, but let it be at least a gift unto them."

An amused smile reached to Mithrandir's eyes. "Truly, you think with the mind of a Maia. Tell me, for my own humor; how, in the mind of an Elf, is a gift a curse and a curse a gift? For, indeed, as such it is to the Maiar, but never have I heard an Elf speak so."

Círdan let forth a weary sigh and his mind seemed to drift away, his eyes clouding over with some calculated thought. "Two I know possess the ability to foresee," he spoke, his voice quiet, "and they are Elrond Half-elven and Galadriel from the West." He then bowed his head and entwined his fingers, the passive aura changing with suddenness from being unperturbed to concern, almost worry. "It is for them my fervent wish that they may come to the knowledge and wisdom that I had unpredictably gained concerning foresight, a wisdom I had not foreseen." He gave a small chuckle at the ridiculous irony of it.

"And what is that?" Mithrandir asked quietly.

Círdan looked at him in somewhat surprise, for he thought Mithrandir already knew. But perhaps he was simply testing him again, so he went forth and answered.

"What took me millennia to understand; that foresight is not a power. As nothing but a messenger you are being used, a vessel to pass words and knowledge from the Valar unto the First and Secondborn they love. The Sight is a gift unto all peoples, truly, whom do not have it, but accursed are you for being that vessel; but with dignity and humility it should be accepted, for it is one way of seldom few you can serve your fellow Elves without opportunity to revel, for no power is granted unto you from receiving visions of the future, for there is no power to be had in it and no room to stroke pride. Wisdom is gained from the Sight, aye, but the true wise would never seek to make their wisdom known, but rather to always question it." Círdan words faded into silence and Mithrandir saw a great pain shadow Círdan's eyes. "Foresight is a gift to _all_ Children of Ilúvatar from the Valar, save for those unto whom the Valar assign to bear it, who then must accept the burden of weariness bound with the Sight." Círdan attempted to give a wry smile but failed miserably. "Thereby as spoken; a curse is their gift to me and a gift is my curse to them. That lesson, hard and painful, I have learned."

"Though wearied by it, be grateful you have learned that lesson," Mithrandir said kindly. "And yet, if it so is with Elrond and Galadriel as you said, why do you not just tell them?"

There was a thoughtful silence before Círdan spoke. "Does an archer become a master through the instruction of the teacher? Nay, for the teacher can only teach the necessities for becoming a master. The journey to reach the summit can be only achieved on one's own, for no amount of guidance or knowledge given unto them by you can reach it for them. It is a realization that both shall have to come to learn on their own, no matter what words I have spoken."

Mithrandir leaned over and whispers in his ear, "Yet sometimes, the wisdom of the teacher lends aid to the archer to becoming a master."

A hint of amusement shone through Círdan's countenance. "You speak wisely, and mayhap I should do so. Yet I am weary to do it. And both of them are strong in spirit; thus for now, I deem it unneeded."

Mithrandir shrugged a shoulder. "In many forms wisdom shines forth. Perhaps your decision of keeping silence is the greater, for the Valar dismiss not your wisdom as folly." Again, a hint of trepidation flashed in Círdan's eyes, so quickly that only sharp eyes could have caught it, and Mithrandir spoke further, lest Círdan attempted to change the subject once more. "Enough, Círdan. Answer me fully; why does such trepidation overcome you when I say the Valar speak of you?"

To say Círdan was beyond discomforted was to say rain was wet. And his voice was eerily deadened when he spoke. "I simply knew not that they did."

Mithrandir shook his head, his brow furrowed. "True that may be, Círdan, but I _see_ your fear as much as feel it. You become scared each time I mention the Valar and you in the same sentence. Why?"

A moment of silence, painful and unbearable, passed before Círdan let out a shaky breath. He swallowed convulsively and closed his eyes. "Please, Master, speak not of it…I cannot."

Mithrandir looked upon him with worry, for he then perceived that he had touched upon a deep wound within the Mariner through his words, a wound long buried, never touched upon before, never surfaced to be quelled and healed. He took hold of the Mariner's hand and held it tight. "My friend, what fear could be conjured at the knowledge that the Valar speak of you? Have you a quarrel with them?"

Círdan dismissed the notion with a small shake of his head. "No, Master," he spoke quietly. "With neither anger nor malcontent do I think upon them, for they have the greatest respect I can offer. And on the Hither Shores I serve them at their command." He shrugged. "I simply knew not that they speak of me."

Mithrandir chuckled at the simplicity of Círdan's answer. "Do you not realize how much Ulmo speaks of you?" he asked, a hint of humored incredulity in his tone. "A task it is sometimes befallen to my King to try and get him to be quiet about you."

"What does my lord speak of me?" Círdan looked at him, but it was a fleeting glance only. Yet nonetheless, Mithrandir caught the way his shoulders had involuntarily stiffened and his fingers flitted across the dark wood of the gunwale. And he indeed caught the uncertainty that lined Círdan's seemingly innocent question and the false casualness of his tone.

The Istar's brow furrowed in confusion and even a hint of worry. "You speak not jestingly," he said, "for I was about to reply thus. Your name is frequently discussed among the Valar, namely my King; why does this cause you doubt?"

Círdan sighed in resignation, for he sensed that the Maia was not going to quit. But it dampened not at all the ache within his chest that grew from the mere memory stirred. "You were correct; I spoke not of everything that happened when I first received the Sight."

Mithrandir waited. "What happened?" There was another silence, this one so long in lasting that the conversation may have ended. But then the Mariner spoke in a quiet voice that belied the age and inner strength the Elf visibly bore.

"The Valar denied me Eldamar."

Despite the patience of his visage, Círdan saw the slight widening of Mithrandir's eyes. "What?" And though calm was his voice, he heard the incredulity beneath it.

Círdan gave a small smile, though void of any delight. "As I spoke, I stood on the shore, looking out to the light I saw upon Eressëa as she went onward to vanish into the West, for in that time, going to Aman was my greatest desire. And it was then forfeit. But ere I saw the white ship shine above me in vision, I wept upon the shore, and did so until Eressëa was almost from sight. And then I cried aloud; 'I will follow that light, alone if none will come with me, for the ship that I have been building is now almost ready.'" Círdan shook his head in seeming remorse. "But even as I declared the words, I heard a message spoken in my heart, in my own tongue." This time the smile was genuine. "That then was the first time I met the Vala Ulmo, the first time he spoke with me. And through his words I learned that the Valar would by no method bear me to the Undying Lands. And at my declaration of sailing on my own, the Vala Ulmo warned me to not attempt that peril, for my strength and skill would not have been able to build any ship able to dare the winds and waves of the Great Sea for many years to come. So upon the Falas I remained, though banned from Aman in all but word."

Mithrandir gazed at him curiously, a flicker in his eyes that led Círdan to believe he knew something he did not. "How answered you to Ulmo's words?"

And there was another small smile, but this time the compassion was seen within it. "I spoke, 'I will obey'," he said simply. "Thinking back on it, a lifetime such words had seemed to presage being uttered."

Mithrandir's gaze was still cast upon him, curiosity mingled with clarity now muddled. "In some tales of old my eyes are shrouded, and now the number is one less. But in your voice I hear neither resentment nor sorrow, merely acceptance…but not _fear_." The fire in his eyes seem to shine brighter as they pierced Círdan's own, keeping them locked in place. "Hide no longer, Círdan. _What was it_ about that day that brings fear upon your heart by the mere memory of it? For your light visibly darkens when you speak of it."

Círdan winced. "Please, Master, press me no more." He detested pleading, but he knew not anything else he could do to evade answering.

But Mithrandir held steady. "I _am_ pressing you," he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. "And you will answer me this; why does anxiety overcome you when I say the Valar speak of you?" Mithrandir, potent in friendship and kindness to name but a few, resented greatly the authority he pressed that left no leeway for his Elven friend. But, like a shadow, he saw, this memory shrouded Círdan. And any who knew the Mariner well could see his swift obedience under the Vala Ulmo, brought about quicker by said Vala's firmness. And though Mithrandir disliked to abuse such loyalty, he rightly perceived that to do so was the only way for Círdan to answer against his will, for this shadow had to be quenched after so long an existence.

And rightly he did perceive, for the firmness in Mithrandir's tone rang as a small bell in the back of Círdan's mind, reasserting itself and reminding him of his place in the order of the World. As on the shore countless ages ago, it was to Ulmo and his brethren he had sworn to serve, and to Ulmo and his brethren he would obey. And so he did.

And his voice came slow in speaking and low in pitch, as though he hoped fervently that Mithrandir would signal him to speak no more. "You are correct, Master, in that remaining in Middle-earth bothers me no more. Indeed, I am glad that I remained, for there is no land I love greater." Pain was then visibly etched across Círdan's face as all the reluctance in the world shone in his eyes. "No, I am not angered with the Valar, for my service in Middle-earth is greater than it would be in the Undying Lands."

His voice constricted and words never before spoken had to be now forced beyond his lips. "I simply wish to know what I had _done_ to earn the Valar's disfavor. How I had wronged them to be denied the Elvenhome. What word I had spoken or deed I had performed worse than those of the Noldor that brought about their banishment." Círdan closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath in attempt to collect himself. And when he again spoke, his voice was a little more controlled, but only a little. "It is not the notion of desiring to go to Aman, but that the Valar may yet reject me still when I finally sail, as they had done the first time, for it was made clear they would come again for me no more."

Mithrandir stared at him in silence, the tranquility of his visage belying the profound shock deep in his being, the horror and disbelief he felt at the Mariner's words. "As the shroud is lifted then I see," he murmured. Círdan glanced sharply at him, but he ignored it. "And in what I see I lay bare. In being told directly to not sail, with self-doubt you had been plagued in belief of your worth and value. Though by chance you missed the second crossing, to no Elf before you was it told to not sail, and thereby was that fear implanted in you that you had wronged the Valar by some deed unknown, even to yourself. And at my words, you can help not but wonder exactly _how_ the Valar speak of you, whether with words of scorn, resentment, or disappointment, for within the recesses of your mind, in light of that day, it must be one if not all three."

Only through perceptive eyes could it be seen that Círdan was ready to flee. Taut as a bowstring was his body and a frozen mask of indifference his visage. He responded with neither word nor gesture to Mithrandir's appraisal. And from a distance, his posture was still and gave the impression that he did not care. But Mithrandir was neither at a distance nor quick to judge. But keen eyes he did possess, and he saw how Círdan's clasped hands trembled, and heard his shuddering breath as he exhaled. And he saw how the eyes of the Shipwright, shadowed and haunted, stared out at the ocean unseeing and how his countenance paled a shade whiter. Círdan was visibly shaken, and towards him Mithrandir felt sorrow, for he was aware that never before had such words been spoken to the Elf; never before had the walls erected around this memory been cast down and all of Círdan's thoughts and inner turmoil concerning that day lain bare.

Mithrandir felt the tremors of Círdan's shoulder as he laid a hand on it. And in the hope of instilling a sense of calm that had long departed the Mariner, he held firm the shoulder. "Círdan," he spoke kindly, "that I struck the truth I see in your eyes. My friend…" He took hold of Círdan's cheek and turned his face towards his own. "Ere the Istari went forth on our journey, we were told that your greatness is as high as the first kings of old among the Elves. How could you think this?"

A helpless doubt lit Círdan's eyes. "How could I not?"

Mithrandir gave a nod of consent. "True, in light of what you have told me, I understand how you could not. But doubt me not when I say, Círdan, that you are spoken of with high regard in Valinor and by my King. With Manwë I reside upon his mountain, and never in my hearing has a word been uttered against you. For as you and your brethren were first beheld by the starlit mere of Cuiviénen, still the Valar speak of you and hold you in thought with wonder. And the Valar have forgotten not that, in the beginning, the Elder Children of Ilúvatar were stronger and greater than they have since become. You have done _nothing_ wrong." Mithrandir hesitated, for he was uncertain as to how the Mariner would react to his coming words. "But in your train of thought, you are mistaken with only one thing."

Círdan raised an eyebrow expectantly. "And what is that?"

Mithrandir this time openly winced, for he knew that Círdan was about to be hurt. "It was not the Valar who denied you passage to Aman," he said. "It was not the Valar who forced you to forfeit your greatest desire….It was Ulmo."

Círdan's eyes visibly widened as his eyes clouded with undeniable hurt as the realization of what was said sunk in. "What?" he begged, only his lips more spoke the word than did his voice.

"Think not ill of him, Círdan," Mithrandir said quickly, a pleading urgency alight in his eyes. "_Please,_ think not ill of him. After Eressëa was uplifted from the depths of his Waters, the Valar came together in counsel and spoke of, again, summoning the Teleri a third time, for they wanted you all in their Blessed Realm. But Ulmo spoke against the summons and stated that it were better for the Teleri to remain in Middle-earth, for he knew the hearts of the Teleri better than any. And though ill-pleased by his refusal, the Valar kept silent a third summoning."

Círdan looked helpless. And despite Mithrandir's words, a glimmer of hurt still shone in his eyes. "That indeed explains why the Falathrim and I soon lost the desire to see Eldamar." He cast his desperate gaze on the Maia. "And all Elves who remained on the shore, save myself, did not wish to go to Aman, for they were persuaded by the Maia Ossë to stay. But the Vala Ulmo heard my plea; why did he stop me?"

Mithrandir grieved at hearing how close Círdan was to pleading. Though hurt yet lined the Mariner's voice, the respect and reverence he held for the King of the Seas was still vastly present. Though fear dredged up from his past was now mingled with confusion, he did not yet feel betrayal. And Mithrandir found hope in that. And with a bright smile, he answered. "He stopped you because he saw you for who you were and what you were to become."

Círdan visibly calmed at his words and a sense of amazement fell over Mithrandir; even amidst the sundry accusations and inner turmoil brought and scattered, the Mariner was still released from doubt and despair at simply knowing that Ulmo was there, that he was the invisible hand behind the plow. And all that proved the fact over again to Mithrandir that Círdan did, in fact, trust every aspect of his life to the Vala.

And as he calmed, a hope shone in Círdan's eyes. "He did?"

Mithrandir nodded. "He did. You yourself spoke that you know your worth is greater in Middle-earth than in Aman. And Ulmo foresaw that." He shook his head and chuckled in exasperation. "Doubt me not, Círdan, when I say that he loves you. In the times he sets foot upon the shores of Aman, of which are seldom few, _every_ _time_ Ulmo speaks of you. And as I said, it is a difficult task for Manwë to get him silent. And through Ulmo's words alone, the Valar entrusted you to be their Gatekeeper." He cocked his head in curiosity. "Believe you that the Valar would place an Elf they did not trust and respect as the Gatekeeper to their Blessed Land? Believe you that, unto an Elf accursed by them, they would assign the duty of determining those that will be granted the rite of passage to Aman? Through _you_, in this day, all Elves are granted the right to cross the Sea. With _your_ judgment it is determined who will sail, when they will sail, or if they must be doomed to remain in Middle-earth a while longer." He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Believe you truly that the Valar, mighty in wisdom, would entrust that explicit duty to an Elf that they curse?"

Círdan clenches his jaw, his discomfort obvious. "I deserve no such praise, for my guidance consistently comes through the voice of the Vala Ulmo. _He_ knows."

Mithrandir smiled in amusement. "Lie to me not, Shipwright. Though the greatest wisdom you have gained through the long years of your life, I _know_ it is by your judgment, that you obtained through your wisdom, that the passage of Elves is determined, save for those who have heard the calling of the Sea."

Círdan looked at him doubtfully, though whether of his words or himself was unclear. "You speak with the Valar. If they entrust me so as you say, how do they know that my heart does not blind my judgment?"

"As we grow in wisdom, we pardon more freely," he said simply. He then raised an eyebrow. "Are you questioning the wisdom of the Valar in making their decisions?"

"Nay, merely the fact of how they know I will not fail them in my purpose on Middle-earth, that I will have the wisdom, if I may use that word again, to fulfill it."

Mithrandir's eyes twinkled in laughter. "I told you, my friend; Ulmo speaks of you very often, and his words are good. And who, in Aman or this side of the Sea, knows you better?"

Círdan could not prevent the smile from surfacing; no greater truth could have been spoken, but the smile quickly faded. "Wise, I think not, for if I were as wise as you name me to be, would I have had those doubts and fears still all these millennia later? Should I not have had the knowledge to understand by now what happened that day Eressëa went into the West?"

Mithrandir chuckled. "Your humility dampens your pride, if you even have any. And that humility has sharpened your mind, opening it to the realities of the World." He saw a sliver of doubt beneath the impassiveness and Mithrandir rested his hand atop of Círdan's. "Listen to me, penneth. The foundation of wisdom is found in doubting; on that day you first possessed the Sight, you doubted the Valar and, even more greatly, yourself. By doubting we come to the question; as I have managed the _impossible_ and persuaded you to voice those questions you have ever kept in your heart. And by seeking their answers we may come upon the truth." He then smiled a gentle smile. "This truth just took a little longer to come to light." A look of confusion lit his face. "Surprised I am, though, that Ulmo never spoke this; that he never spoke to you why you were kept from Aman."

"I never asked."

Mithrandir stared at him in disbelief. "Now _that_ was inaction of true stupidity. Never let it be said that the wise never stop learning. In your case, it is one of the blessings of your friendship with Ulmo that you can afford to be stupid with him."

Círdan chuckled, not offended by the jibe, for he believe it to be true. "My doubt led me astray. And in time, I learned to forget it, though I will deny not the folly of ignoring it." A burst of spray flew up against the hull of the ship and Círdan stared down at the water in amazement; somehow, he could sense Ulmo's exasperation as he listened to the conversation. He turned to Mithrandir. "Thank you."

Mithrandir nodded only and spoke no more on the subject. "There is one thing I would like to know, Círdan," he said, "for long I have pondered it and never had it answered."

Círdan's interest was piqued. Of what did he know that the Maia didn't, after all? "Of course. What do you wish to know?"

A moment of silence passed as the Maia studied the Mariner, his grey eyes shimmering with thought. "Of much we have spoken concerning your self-doubt. Was that one of the reasons why you refused the kingship, thus passing it onto Elwë? For long have I wondered why you, as the eldest of the Teleri, abdicated the opportunity to become the first Elvenking of Beleriand."

Círdan gave an offhanded shrug and, with nothing better to do, his fingers strayed once more to his wayward hair in attempt to untangle it. "In the greater reason it is what you named," he said. "Yet not the only one. From the dawn of time, already in my heart I had been enchanted by the Vala Ulmo's Waters, for on the very shores of the mere of Cuiviénen I awoke, the mere's water sweeping about me." A thoughtful frown creased his brow. "Perhaps when breath first entered my body my heart was destined to belong to the Sea. But during those hundred years of our waiting upon the shores of the Falas, I had become enamored with the Sea; not to the degree I am in love with the Sea today, but to the point where my desire for Aman and desire for the Sea began to war with each other. And there came the first in my youth when my heart was divided." Another weary sigh passed his lips. "And then after the whole…situation…of Tol Eressëa, I knew not with clarity my own heart and mind any longer. And amidst my own inner confusion, I dared not to take up the title of High King, for I feared to lead my kin astray.

"Therefore, I settled as an advisor to King Thingol and as Lord of the Falas, and with those duties I was content. And Elwë was a greater leader to our people than I. Besides," he added with a self-conscious smile, "my tutelage under the Vala Ulmo and his vassal had become an integral part of me, so much that the Sea became my only flame of desire."

"Yes," Mithrandir spoke slowly, for he fully believed Círdan's declaration of where the desire of his heart lay; for ere he first met the Mariner, none before him, be he Elf or Man, in the Maia's eyes, had ever professed such a love for Ulmo's Waters. Yet still, the grey clad Istar was shrouded in a sliver of worry and had no qualm to voice his concern. "Are you angry with Ulmo after all I have spoken, my friend?" he asked. "To quell your turmoil was my intention, not to stir resentment against your lord."

And a genuine laugh burst forth from Círdan's chest. "How could I be angry with him? Far wiser is he than I and long ago I entrusted my life to him. If he deemed my place is in Middle-earth - and I believe him correct - then in Middle-earth my place is. And if he deems that I shall remain in Middle-earth, then in Middle-earth I shall remain until the last ship sails." He cast an appraising eye on the water below. "And long ago I sensed he does deem it so, and so it shall be."

Mithrandir's grey brow quirked. "You would stay unto the ending of the World if Ulmo asked it of you?" The question was rhetorical and he expected no answer. "Have you no desire to go to Aman anymore?"

Círdan shook his head, a surreal nature of peace cloaking him, as if he were one in great age ready to lay down in his permanent bed. Neither doubt nor weariness entered his tone as he spoke, "My heart no longer craves to see the Blessed Realm. That flame of desire died long ago. With the Sea, my heart is content and my soul at peace. If so granted, it is there I would lay my spirit to rest…until the ending of the World. I need not the bliss of Aman, only my blessed union with the Sea."

A wholly different sense of worry overcame Mithrandir. "You are ready to rest?"

"I count the hours ere I can sleep."

Silence pressing and foreboding fell after the reconciled words were spoken and Mithrandir had not the will to question Círdan's fatalistic statement. But it caused in him a disturbance nonetheless, for the weariness he perceived in the Mariner was buried too deeply for him to dredge. Instead, the Maia observed him with a warm grin as he fought the losing battle with his silver hair. "Círdan," Mithrandir spoke with a mischievous smile, "ere even I received the Valar's counsel and all words spoken of you, I would still have recognized who you are, even if you bore no name to speak."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "How?"

Mithrandir reached out and took a strand of Círdan's knotted hair in hand, gently running it between his fingers. "Your hair," he said simply, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. "Your hair is a large giveaway, for it bears the silver hue of Thingol and yet the white sheen of Olwë. You are the kinsman of the brothers, a true Elf of nobility and no other has hair such as yours." He released the hair as a wave of melancholy seemed to wash over him. "Olwë and Elwë would recognize you not, I fear, for you no longer bear a visage of youth, but rather that of an elderly Man." And then he smiled. "But your hair gives you away easily."

No further words passed the lips that night from any aboard the ship, and the _Fëagaer_ sailed swiftly on amongst the endless glassy swells alit with the arched latitudes of stars, guided as ever by the hand of the Dweller of the Deep. And in the hard black vault above the Moon waned as the night passed, and yet still, it was too early in time for Círdan again to see the rising dawn. For ere the diminishing of the white stars, Ulmo summoned the Mariner once more beneath deck to rest with the aid of Lórien. And he went without word or thought of complaint, for he was beyond weary in both mind and body and looked eagerly towards his bed. With him went Mithrandir, who took from the forepeak the lantern that Círdan had left there, which he had doused after Círdan had last left for sleep. The other two Istari remained on deck in silence, sharing neither company nor word.

And in the helmsman's quarters, Mithrandir had turned away to afford Círdan the privacy to strip from his clothing ere he slipped under the thin covers of his bed. And as his head met the pillow, his eyes heavy and tired had quickly closed; sleep already falling upon him without aid of higher power. But beside him Mithrandir sat. And above, he saw the Vala of Dreams as a wraith appear and place a hand upon the Mariner's head, dousing his sentience and sending him into deep slumber. And with light fingers, Mithrandir moved aside the stray hairs from Círdan's brow as the Mariner's breaths grew long and deep.

And once assured the Mariner would not wake, he leaned back with a sigh. In his hand Mithrandir bowed his head, and he put forth his mind to the other world, the dominion of his incorporeal form. _Manwë, my King, how could you sanction such a deserving Elf to be ruined and robbed by weariness and not now call him home to your Blessed Realm? He has done nothing to deserve such chastisement and is in great need of healing._

And in the designated chest Mithrandir placed the lantern ere parting in silence, leaving Círdan to his rest.

To be continued….

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><p><strong>AN:** Next chapter – pieces of the puzzle finally start falling into place. Deep topics are discussed, among them the Rings of Power. Ulmo plays his biggest part and Círdan _finally_ finds out why he is on this voyage and also has a vision. And in Ch. 7, he finally arrives home! I know that, in this chapter, there was a lot to make some folk question canonical accuracy, but again, all sources will be listed.

And perhaps it is a bit cheeky to suggest that the beauty and greatness of Círdan's ship surpassed even the white ships of Alqualondë, but there's no reason why it wouldn't. Círdan was given his legacy name "Shipwright" and the title as the "Lord of Shipwrights" long before the Teleri of Tol Eressëa ever crossed the Great Sea. Círdan is the greatest mariner and shipwright of _all_ mariners and shipwrights, and whether they live in Aman or not is irrelevant.

Reviews are more than greatly appreciated and I thank you in advance for them. Expect chapter 6 within the next two weeks. Happy trails, and please review!


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer see chapter 1.

**A/N:** Thank you as ever for your patience and willingness to continue reading. In this chapter, there is more dialogue, but all things start falling into place and Ulmo comes aboard the _Fëagaer_. And in the next chapter, Círdan finally arrives home and there starts insanity. With that, I would like to give my thanks to **Lia** **Whyteleafe**, **GreenGreatDragon**, **adorkable123456**, **Zammy**, and **Mia-philosephet** for your reviews. And my special thanks to **Lia Whyteleafe** for giving advice on this chapter. Happy reading!

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><p>"If there is anything more poignant than a body agonizing for want of bread, it is a soul which is dying of hunger for light." ~ Victor Hugo, <em>Les<em> _Misérables_

**Chapter 6**

_A barren wasteland lay stretched before him shrouded in shadow, the marred land rolling and writhing in tumult. The wind whipped his hair wild and scratched at his skin as the fell claws of a savage beast. The sky was black and deafening thunder rumbled without pause while lightning shattered the sky. A red haze screened the horizon and all around the plain rose fumes and poisonous vapors, carrying to Círdan the scent of burning blood. And the air was superheated so fiercely that his throat and lungs burned and scorched as he breathed. _

_And Círdan cast his gaze around him, his feet planted solidly on the ground, and he took in the horrific sight that lay before him as dismay seized his heart. Afar he could see trees tall and majestic burning, and he could smell their scorched pinewood and oak leaves. Carcasses stretched across in haphazard heaps of different animals, many of them horses and birds, their mutilated bodies providing a feast to the creatures of the dirt as they decomposed. In the furrows of the ground he could see evidence of dried riverbeds. Blood covered the field in spatters and puddles and the air reeked with the scent of corpses._

_But amidst all the death, it was not lifeless. Along the Far East there were lined massive machinations of war, shrouded in the shadow of dark mountains. He saw Men running to and fro, their women clutching their children to their breast, their mouths opened in screams inaudible. But also were Men fighting a blurred enemy, their swords heavy and shields strong. And they gave no leeway. Elves, Círdan saw also, fought in another corner; their faces fierce and fell, their bows strong and light, and their blades deadly and swift. And they gave no leeway. But Elves, Círdan saw also, were fleeing, and they fled beyond his sight. Dwarves defended their mountains and Little People hid in their holes, safe-guarding their land. War raged on and darkness encroached._

_But amidst all this, Círdan saw a flame in the center. Though not great in size, it radiated pure light in a constant stream. But the fire did not devour; it kindled peace within Círdan and succored his wanhope and distress. He knew not what this flame was, but it remained ever strong, untainted, untouched, and the darkness could not quench it. For amid the battles raging and stench of death, it remained unconquered._

Círdan knew not how many hours he lay in his bed. His grey eyes were cast upon the timber ceiling of his quarters as the dark and troubled vision passed from his field of sight. And his eyes, dilated and dark, cleared as they took hold of his surroundings once more. And he simply lay there in silence afterwards, the moaning and creaking of the wood of his ship as it rocked along the ocean mingled with his breaths being the only sound in the cabin. And upon this vision – or mayhap it was a dream – Círdan placed little thought, for already the Mariner knew what it was he saw with uncanny clarity; the Istari he presumed was the flame, and he saw what they were soon to be surrounded by. And dwelling upon what he further knew was to come would do little to alleviate the weariness of his mind. As pointed out by Mithrandir, Elves were inquisitive creatures and rarely paused in thought when there was a mystery to be solved. But ere the Sun had first traversed the sky he had learned to temper his thoughts to mere ends and leave them at that. What more could be accomplished otherwise?

But though silent he remained, Círdan's thoughts were awry. Of much the Istari had given him to think upon and little respite had been granted to ponder on it as he now had. But he kept silent his thoughts and was content with all the new knowledge he had been granted of this coming resistance against Sauron. And for the first time in years, he felt a glimmer of peace at the hope it stirred, for only with the intervention of the Valar had the rise in power of the Enemy been smitten.

"Amidst the Sea let me dwell."

The whispered words slipped past his lips without his awareness that they did. And such simple words had been uttered long and far over the millennia of Círdan's life that a mellow song had been derived from them over the counting years on the shore. For unto Ulmo it had been his plea, to ever reside amongst the Sea and never be parted from it. He would be deceiving himself if he said that Mithrandir's dredging of the past had not shaken him. For it had, rather immensely. And still, he felt a shudder run through his body every time he recalled their conversation, for every emotion, every doubt and fear, every ounce of turmoil from that day so long ago had been brought to the surface as fresh and shattering as the day when they had first been felt.

Elven memory was not mortal memory, he knew. Mortals, as one of their blessings Círdan presumed, could recall an incident from the past as though simply looking upon a page in a book. But Elven memory was strong and not only did they remember everything, but they _felt_ everything that came with it. And though Mithrandir had practically torn him apart through bringing up that day with Eressëa…he was grateful that he did. For the thought that he had somehow wronged the Valar had forever tormented him. But now knowing what he did, he could help not but to think how foolish he had been. He should have been more trusting of them – more trusting of Ulmo – in that they did nothing without reason. Mithrandir had been right, he thought; he should have asked and was stupid to have not done so. But as he had declared, Aman mattered little to him now, for all he desired was the Sea. But still, knowing that he would not be rejected from Valinor once he did sail…he could breathe again.

A light knock came on the door and Círdan turned to look at the narrow panel of wood. "Come."

With nary a sound, the door opened and Radagast entered with a serene smile. "For hours you have lain and by impatient Tilion the Moon is set to wane," the Istar gently teased in tones quiet and lyrical. Yet with the vaguest hints of worry did his brown eyes glimmer. "Are you well, Shipwright? For your presence we have waited, but faint and far you remain to our sight."

Círdan's face fell in concern as he released a weary sigh. "I apologize; I knew not you and your colleagues wait for me. Allow me to dress and I shall join you."

Radagast inched a little ways further into the cabin, the worry not having deserted his eyes. "Are you well, I ask again? In your eyes I see you are troubled. Yet by the bidding of the Lord of Waters your mind is to not be burdened."

Círdan shook his head as the vaguest hints of a smile touched the corners of his mouth, though his eyes remained tired and heavy. "I am well. Much the Istari have given me to think upon. But only think do I do, for your many words of when I was last awake give me little to worry about." Of the vision he kept silent, for said revelation brought about much concern as they always did. And he hoped that the truth spoken (or rather lack of it) was satisfying to the Maia.

But unfounded was that hope when Círdan saw the knowing gleam in Radagast's eyes. "Let your words be true," he spoke evenly. And then he smiled. "Yet I would that you ready yourself, for Mithrandir bears a gift for you." Only the keenest eyes could have then seen the slightest clenching of his jaw. "And Curunír desires to speak with you."

Círdan's interest was suitably piqued. And though his body bemoaned leaving the comfort of his bed, he dressed swiftly as Radagast awaited him in the crew's cabin. His movements were slow and sluggish and in a brief flash of envy in his tired mind, he really wanted again the rejuvenation of youth. Mayhap he was getting too old, he thought, that such thoughts should be upon him. But he slipped on his boots and, after stepping through the narrow door, Radagast looked upon him with a smile and amusement in his eyes. "My Lord Círdan," he spoke in jest. "Never do I believe have I seen hair so askew."

Círdan knew not whether to grin, for contagious was Radagast's own smile, or to grimace, for he agreed with the astute observation. A Warg probably had hair more pristine, he thought grudgingly. And any earlier attempts in disentangling it had resulted with pain in his scalp. So the Mariner settled for scowling at the Maia for finding humor in his poor hair's demise. "Embark on your journey in the Hither Lands ere you speak such words to me," he grumbled.

And Radagast chuckled, the sound light and clear and warm as the Sun. And Círdan could help not but to grin a little in return, for the Maia's merriment could be felt. "And of our doom you speak the truth I deem," he said. "For without the comfort of Elves we shall traverse Middle-earth. Come, my friend." He held out a nimble hand. "Beneath the stars let us partake of this night." And behind him Círdan followed.

Above deck night certainly reigned, which brought little wonder to Círdan. Right when cleared of the hatch, he was bombarded with the southern gales. And the wind tugged at his attire and hair ferociously. But Círdan's eyes went to the starry dome above, clear of any wisp of a cloud. As ever, innumerable stars, faint and far, littered the heavens of Arda with fire as in the dawn of days. The Moon, driven high in the sky, shone brightly down on the shimmering ocean. But as Círdan studied the stars and the constellations therein, he knew that not even three days remained ere they reached the Gulf of Lhûn, and beyond her, Mithlond. The wind blew from astern, the boom of the mainsail stretching to its fully capacity, the telltale of wool at the masthead fluttering madly. And the strong wind sent the _Fëagaer_ running elegantly over the rolling swells and Círdan, with swiftness granted only unto experienced mariners, remained gracefully balanced on the moving deck of the ship as he followed Radagast to the stern.

And at the stern stood Curunír and Mithrandir, speaking in words quiet and curt. Their hair and raiment whipped about them, and both flustered and energetic they seemed to be, which encouraged Círdan to absently wonder if the Istari have had need to rest over the voyage. But for a long duration they must have stood there speaking, Círdan deduced with amusement, for both their beards showed the first signs of the white crust that formed in the hairs after standing for so long against the salty wind. But as they approached the two Istari Círdan's eye was caught by another movement as they walked down the aisle of rowing benches.

That accursed oyster shell.

In the hours he had laid awake in bed Círdan had attempted to place little thought on the seashell that now rocked in a rolling rhythm on the bench, reflecting the pure moonlight on its sheen surface. Mithrandir had made him give his word to not touch the shell and after such insistence to leave it be, Círdan now had the strongest and irrational desire _to_ touch it. And though a step away it seemed now tantalizingly out of reach.

"How by the greatest desire beyond our reach is such temptation stirred," a teasing voice spoke.

Círdan turned his glowering gaze unto Mithrandir's twinkling eyes and said nothing. The fault lay with Mithrandir, after all, that such temptation existed, he rationalized. Curunír looked upon the scene with a slight smile, though grave did his eyes remain. And Círdan looked into Curunír's fiery eyes and collected himself.

"I apologize for making you wait, my lord. Is it that you would speak with me?" he asked evenly, hiding well the nervousness he felt. For Círdan indeed felt a sense of trepidation at speaking once more with Curunír the White, not out of any sense of fear, but out of seeing in him something the other Maiar too contained in a lesser degree. For the Maiar were not just parts of Ilúvatar's Song; they _were_ Ilúvatar's Song. And Curunír, whether by way of his knowledge of the World and its wonders that he emanated so thoroughly, or through the knowledge that he was the Head of the Istari, he simply seemed to breathe and speak and walk in that greatness of the Song more than the others. And though he would not admit it aloud, Círdan could not deny that his presence was intimidating to be sure.

Curunír gave a single nod, the meager smile swiftly disappearing as his countenance became grave. And his hands wringed along his fine staff, though his eyes and bearing remained sure. "Aye, Master Mariner, it is," he spoke. "As Mithrandir had hitherto spoken, in certain ways our eyes are shrouded."

Círdan slightly raised an eyebrow as he heard the tautness of the words, as though they had been voiced against Curunír's will. But ere he could think of questioning such obvious disparage, he heard a barely smothered snicker from his right and turned to look into Mithrandir's smiling face. "Such admittance touched upon your pride, I do see," the grey-clad Istar spoke in jest, laughter alight in his eyes. "That the knowledgeable be bereft of knowledge…what torment it must be."

"Go play with your fire," Curunír grumbled back, though a smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. Círdan inwardly grinned at the good-natured byplay between the two, but all too soon Curunír's grave focus was once more upon him. "Nonetheless, it is as I spoke, and yet I tell you that in one matter my eyes are shrouded still. To it I seek an answer, if you will give it."

Círdan gave a nod. "My knowledge will not be kept from you, my lord," he spoke. "If through it I am able to help, I will answer the best I can."

Once more, Círdan caught the faintest glint of approval in Curunír's dark eyes, as well as the deference that came with it. "Good," he said. "Upon Taniquetil of Manwë's mountain and amidst the debriefing of the Valar we had been told much of the Sauron's Ring, for within it lays dormant his power and will. And amidst the era he forged in secret this Ring, we were told other rings by the hands of the Mírdain were made, and of them there were many. We were told that in the making of the rings, Celebrimbor was instrumental."

Against his comprehension, Círdan felt within a flood of apprehension and warning, and kept his countenance a careful mask of neutrality. Though it seemed that he had to will his eyes to maintain contact with Curunír's, for he felt great temptation to look down towards where he felt the pulse of Narya, invisible upon his finger. In a fleeting glance, Círdan looked to Mithrandir, but his face too was a composed mask, one of simple curiosity. But Círdan was not ignorant of the growing air of unease between them. He felt that they were waiting for an answer, some acknowledgement of some kind, and Círdan knew not what to think.

So Círdan simply nodded again. "Aye, it is true. What of it?"

Curunír cocked his head to the side in curiosity, ignoring completely the wisps of hair blowing across his face. "What happened when Sauron put on his Ring?" he asked.

Círdan was speechless, plain and simple. Perhaps a question pertaining to the location of any or all rings or to the power indwelling them he might have expected, but not this. Círdan's thoughts were awry and muddled now with confusion and could not prevent such quandary from lighting his eyes. He peered around to find all three Istari waiting for an answer, standing still in patient expectation.

He looked back into Curunír's unblinking stare. "What happened?" he repeated weakly.

Curunír nodded.

Círdan searched through his vault of memories afore recalling that fate-altering day long ago. And with the recollection there came to him the deep anger and despair he had felt that day; in his eyes the Istari saw the long-past emotions shadow them. But Círdan spoke evenly, thereby belying the mixed sentiments swimming in his eyes. "Being that you speak of the rings forged by the smiths of Celebrimbor….All who wore a ring crafted through Sauron's aid of hand removed them, for they had then realized they had been deceived when Sauron's placed upon his finger the Ring, for they could feel his presence within the rings they wore."

Curunír raised an eyebrow. "And?" he asked. "What did he do?"

Círdan gave a helpless shrug, believing that the Istari must already know this. "He returned to Eregion, demanding the surrender of all Rings of Power. When it was not so, when he had received not _all_ of them, he had tortured and slaughtered Celebrimbor, bearing his corpse on a spear as his banner. War had erupted and Eregion lain to waste."

Curunír nodded again, his voice abnormally calm even as he spoke, and Círdan sensed an underlying impatience. "Of this we know, for of all rings pertaining to all Races the Valar saw fit to inform us. That Celebrimbor denied him only the location of the Elven Rings we also know. And I ask again; what did Sauron do?"

There was a pause. "He scoured Eriador in search of them." Círdan's voice was tight, his throat constricted with some suppressed emotion attached to the memory, though whether it would be rage or sorrow, none knew.

Finally, a hint of the impatience broke through Curunír's words. "And how did he scour for them?"

Círdan furrowed his brow. "He raged war on Eriador," he said simply. "None were safe from either his wrath or hand."

"Yes, yes," he replied, the impatience finally breaking through to a respectable degree. "But he scoured for them _how_? Was he urgent?"

Círdan blinked. And all that could be heard was the groaning of wood, the deep roar of ocean waves, and wind-whipped canvas. Yet the Mariner had deduced that this was what the two Istari had previously been arguing about. "Aye, by my reckoning he was urgent," he said carefully, fully uncertain as to what answer Curunír was looking for. Yet he spoke the truth; with swiftness and unmatched resolve, Sauron had swept across Eriador in searched of the Elven Rings, without mercy and without pause. The massacre and ruin of Eregion had been destined to be the fate of all people west of the Hithaeglir. "No land was safe. If but for the timely aid of the Númenórean Fleet, to the furthest corner of Middle-earth would Sauron's reach have extended. I apologize, Master," he added sincerely at the slight glimmer of disappointment in Curunír's eyes. "I would that I could tell you more, but present I was not at neither the forging of the Elven Rings nor when Sauron came to collect them. Unless in Mithlond, I had been in the company of Elvenking Gil-galad. Of his urgency, I can tell you no more outside of sheer guesswork and hearsay."

Curunír gave a slow nod in the ensuing silence, his disappointment laid bare for any to see. Mithrandir and Radagast looked upon him expectantly, waiting for further word or question to be spoken. And Curunír remained deep in thought, his eyes calculating and shrouded in contemplation, all the while Círdan stood before him in patience. And afore much time had passed, Curunír once again looked at Círdan, the familiar mask of indifference firmly in place.

"Tell me of the Elven Rings," he said. "What knowledge of them is to all generally known?"

Círdan was uncertain as to whether to look more alarmed or surprised. "Would this be another area where your eyes are shrouded?"

Curunír grinned, his eyes shining in amusement. "Nay, Master Mariner. The Valar see and know all Ilúvatar bids them to, and of the Three Rings the Valar confided in us. That they remain hidden we know, though of where and by whom we are ignorant. Greatly limited is our knowledge of them, though we know Vilya is the mightiest of the Rings and that all bands set with stone contain power to be envied." He cocked his head and added meaningfully, "I would that I could know simply what the common understanding of them is; what any Elf may presume of them; what Sauron may have heard whether by word of hearsay or fact from Elves who could not uphold their silence under his cruelty."

Círdan's eyes alit with sudden comprehension of the purpose behind Curunír's question, and he inwardly sighed in relief. For so long had such secrecy been kept that the Mariner became unnaturally guarded when the Three Rings were discussed. Even if said discussion were with Maiar sent as trusted emissaries of the Valar, he realized with a growing sense of shame. "I now understand and will speak what I know," he said. "It is reckoned that the Rings possess the power of preservation, to resist the weariness of Time; this is generally rumored and presumed by all." Of course, he knew far more, but he kept silent on all else, for Curunír had only asked what common rumor of the Elven Rings was.

Curunír stared at him. "And?"

Curunír already knew this, Círdan deduced, and he could help not but wonder what specific words the Wizard was waiting for. Rapidly, he attempted to recall any and all of the whispered words he had occasionally heard in his Havens pertaining to the Rings. "And…only the Three were forged without the touch of Sauron's hand. But this is a fact and is widely known."

Curunír gave a knowing nod. "Forgive my lack of clarity. What of domination?" he asked. "Do the Rings possess the power to dominate?"

Rather adamantly, Círdan shook his head. "No, my lord, for it is rather the opposite; to resist dominance."

Once more, Círdan saw the obvious disappointment grow in Curunír's eyes. What thoughts that must have gone through his mind remained unknown, but Círdan could help not but to think that he had missed a large step somewhere; despite the clear answers he had given to equally clear questions, they were obviously not the answers Curunír had been looking for.

"Master," Círdan began, and then he hesitated. "May I inquire as to why you seek such information?"

Curunír peered deeply into Círdan's eyes with an intensity that would have put the greatest Elven stare to shame. And Círdan held firm; though unnerved by the Wizard's probing glare, he wanted this Curunír the White to trust him, to know that he inquired such an answer without guile. In a fleeting glance, Curunír's gaze broke from his and looked to his right, where the Mariner knew Mithrandir stood. Yet it was but a moment before their eyes met once again. And a mysterious light then entered Curunír's dark scrutiny, a light Círdan could not interpret, but he saw the deep, genuine respect within it.

"Why I hesitate to confide in you, I know not, Círdan," he murmured in something akin to wonder. "For in the Hither Lands, our only link to the integrity of our place in this Age you shall be, for only you will know what we do. And times there may arise where we may seek upon wisdom and counsel pertaining to our duty among a foreign people, and only you would be capable of providing it. Or to even merely discuss it." And then he sighed, the first slip of his firm rein on control Círdan had seen yet. "Why I asked of you such inquiries is very simple; there are pieces of the puzzle that must be put into place.

"For the domination of will does Sauron strive," he went on to explain. "And it is for that reason it has been assigned unto us to unite the Free Peoples against their common foe, to unite all those Sauron would seek to corrupt, and of who there are many. In evil Sauron is only less so than his master, Morgoth, in that he served another longer than he served himself. And just as Morgoth strove to bend the minds of the Elves he captured to do his bidding, so Sauron now strives to do the same."

The slightest smile could be detected on Círdan's lips. "When last I was awake we spoke of the subtlety in the tactics of both Morgoth and Sauron, how the deception of minds proved to be their greatest asset."

Curunír gave a little, offhand shrug. "When you control the thinking of a person, you need not have to worry about his actions," he said. "And despite your absence in the day, you know that Sauron had forged those many rings for precisely that purpose; to control the will of those that wore them. And the Elves who had borne them immediately felt his presence when he placed on his Ring." He then sighed in obvious frustration and his voice was tight as he spoke further. "And now your words are a hindrance, for to hear now the properties of the Elven Rings of Power and how they were forged in Sauron's absence….excuse me. I can speak no further."

And Círdan watched in bafflement as Curunír left the three of them at the stern. When one asked a question, it was to clear confusion, he knew, but now he was more confused than ever. And he fleetingly pondered if ever a day would come when higher beings of power would seize to flummox him. The miens of Mithrandir and Radagast provided no answer, so Círdan remained silent.

And across the vaulting deck to the prow Curunír walked with the swift, inbred gate of an experienced seafarer, his white hair and raiment whipping wildly about him in the opposing winds. Between two rope-entwined shrouds he rested his staff and gripped with both hands the sheen wood of the gunwale. And still and a statue he stood, looking out to the midnight horizon, ignoring completely the repetitive bursts of mist erupting from atop the waves to the deck as the keel cleaved through the crests of the rolling swells. And at this odd behavior of a looming character Círdan had come to respect as well as be intimidated by, the Mariner turned an inquiring eye on Mithrandir, only to find the grey-clad Istar looking upon his Chief in obvious worry. Radagast, Círdan noted with wry amusement, bore simply a vacant expression, his thoughts ostensibly on the other side of Arda. And knowing just how mysterious and unpredictable this particular Maia was, Círdan would not have doubted that that was just where they might have been.

But Círdan turned back to Mithrandir and gestured behind him to the prow, agitatedly moving his wildly blowing hair out of his eyes. "Was Master Curunír angered by way of some hastily spoken word on my part?" he asked, concern lining his voice. "If so, I meant not to do so and will apologize."

As Radagast shook his head with a tender smile, Mithrandir held up a hand to halt the Mariner ere more words could be spoken. "Peace, Círdan," he said. "Take not his impatience as ire, for my friend Curunír is simply worried, though he tries greatly to hide it."

Círdan looked upon him in no small amount of surprise. "Worried?"

Mithrandir nodded, his countenance solemn. "Though in bearing he is strong and confident, and though he showcases his excessive knowledge wisely, great burden does he carry on his shoulders. Understand, Círdan, that Sauron is the mightiest of Maiar. And as Curunír hitherto spoke for you alone, we are forbidden to match that might with our own; thus, by other means must we seek to bring about Sauron's fall, no matter how complex they might be." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "It is my belief that Curunír is trying to find a chink in Sauron's armor; a weakness, however small, that we could use to our advantage, which was what we had been discussing ere you joined us."

Círdan subconsciously nodded, recognizing the logic in that. "But what has that to do with the questions he asked of me?"

Mithrandir exchanged an indecipherable glance with Radagast before answering. "Sauron wanted the Elven Rings; something about them drove him to desire them. As you spoke, he swept across Eriador in search of them with _urgency_. To the sway of the Shadow the Three are unconquerable; save from Sauron himself, thereby meaning that there is _something_ about the Rings that stands in resistance to the workings of Sauron. And _that_, I gather, is what Curunír is trying to discover. And perchance through that discovery, should it be found, we would further be enabled to counsel the Free Peoples in greater knowledge and wisdom." And Mithrandir sighed, unhappy at their eyes being shrouded in such a crucial area, but resigned to it nonetheless. "Mayhap if the Three Rings had possessed the power to dominate the minds of Elves, Sauron's desire may have been clear, for obtaining them would have been the solution to controlling and governing the Firstborn. But by hearing your words that it is not so….his motive for hunting them may forever remain closed from us."

Círdan looked again at the still figure of Curunír and a sense of sympathy stirred within his chest. Though all Istari were assigned with the same severity and gravity by which to execute their duty, as Head of the Order, Curunír was taking on that extra step that came with leadership; that greater burden of being right, that greater weight of responsibility. And having been a lord himself most of his life, Círdan really could sympathize with Curunír's worry; people expecting one to always be right could be a heavy burden. And he felt a sense of guilt from not be able to relieve that stress through his words, for further words he could have spoken, and yet he could not.

But how much could he speak? The only person, after all, who could have had greater understanding and have known more about the Elven Rings was Celebrimbor himself, for he had crafted them alone. But par all the words the Istari had confided in him, Círdan had deduced that the Valar saw fit to limit the knowledge of the Istari in certain places, of which were seldom few. But even in the areas where their sight was limited, such as with the Elven Rings, they still knew a great deal. In fact, Círdan added satirically, it appeared that the only real thing the Istari were unaware of concerning the Three was where they were located, for Curunír's questions had pertained only to what was rumored and whispered among the Free People about the Rings. He wanted to help Curunír and the Istari, he truly did. For as one of the Ring-bearers who had borne Narya for nigh on three millennia….How much could he speak?

"May I speak, Masters?" he asked.

Mithrandir and Radagast both raised a cynical eyebrow. "Of course," they both enunciated slowly.

Círdan gave a wan, embarrassed smile. "Amongst my people it is widely known that Sauron wants the Three Rings. True, they possess no power of domination, but a great source of protection to some Elves they provide. A theory it only is on my part, but I believe that Sauron would endeavor to take the Rings and thereby weaken the Elves – and realms – whose protection depends upon them."

Mithrandir and Radagast stared at him in silence. And so long the silence lasted that Círdan once more began to feel discomforted. But then Mithrandir began to chuckle as a full smile surfaced on Radagast's visage as he shook his head disparagingly. "Ah, how the most sensible proves to be the simplest answer," he said.

"Yes indeed," Mithrandir agreed. "I will speak with Curunír. The folly of the wise it is sometimes to contemplate too deeply upon the darkest of things."

"Curunír qualms too far," Radagast spoke lightly, and Círdan looked upon this sudden chirpier attitude in amused interest. "In other paths there lie ways to thwart the Enemy."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "May I ask what?" A voice in the back of his mind was telling him that this was what he and Curunír had been arguing over since the voyage began, over what had made them quarrel as _bickering_ _children_.

Once more, that vacant expression overcame Radagast's brown orbs as they alit with a mystical radiance akin to the Sun. Or perhaps the Moon. Or perhaps the stars mirrored in the shimmering Waters, twisting and shifting with the motions of the rolling swells. "Healing the land," he spoke in wistful longing with an underlying sorrow. "The cruelty of Sauron's hand extends beyond the boundaries of the Free People. For ages past has the Shadow destroyed the life and mocked the beauty of both plant and tree my Lady put forth so much love in making. And upon the remembrance of their death I long to weep. To encourage life to flourish would be to set back the growth of Shadow. Thus, alongside the duty assigned unto us, so also would I aspire to heal the land and life therein that was darkened."

Finally, a genuine smile creased Círdan's old face. Radagast's words had immediately reminded him of the darkening of Greenwood the Great. And from afar the Shipwright could foresee Radagast forming a great friendship with the Wood-elves and their valiant Elvenking. And though he could only imagine what the Valar had confided in the Istari, his smile grew at the knowledge that Radagast would be residing in Mirkwood for a time. "My heart is uplifted by your words," he said. "I truly hope you will be able to do what you say."

Radagast gave a gentle smile in return. "As do I, Círdan," he said, resting a light hand on his shoulder. "As do I."

And then Radagast left them at the stern, and Círdan turned to watch him amble up along the aisle of rowing benches. And once more he stood in front of the hewn mast, an impairment Círdan no longer looked upon with despair, for Radagast's promise of healing her had revived a sense of wellbeing within. And across the great splinter he ran his nimble fingers, tracing the deep grains of wood. But Círdan let the strange Maia be; he was an odd one and sometimes, he knew, it was just better to not attempt to understand the odd ones.

"Círdan," Mithrandir spoke, and once more his grey eyes were met with Círdan's tired gaze. And then he smiled a bright smile. "Did Radagast fail to tell you that for you I have a gift?"

Círdan stared at him for a long moment before a slight smile lit his face. "I had forgotten."

"Well, now you remember," Mithrandir jested. And then he pointed towards the nearest rowing bench. "Sit there next to the shell."

Círdan twisted his jaw and looked cynically at said location. The shell was still wafting hither and thither, so simple and yet so tempting as ever. He turned a questioning gaze on the innocent looking Istar, wondering sardonically if this order to sit was but a mockery or jest at his expense. But at the expectant – and meaningful – glare of Mithrandir, he did as told and sat on the rowing bench, very deliberately keeping the direction of his gaze away from the oyster shell, trying to ignore it. He heard Mithrandir chuckle overhead. He ignored that, too.

"Círdan," Mithrandir spoke as he leaned on his staff, "as Radagast told you, you are to be given a gift." There was a pause as Círdan looked up into Mithrandir's tender gaze. "But this gift is not from me, nor from the Istari. It was simply handed to me to carry, until such a time to pass it unto you arrived."

Círdan's interest was now very piqued, though he concealed it behind a slightly raised eyebrow. And instead, he asked the question he knew Mithrandir was waiting for. "And who is it from?"

Mithrandir smiled. "From Ulmo." Círdan's attention snapped back in surprise and Mithrandir spoke further lest the Mariner interrupt. "Ere this voyage began, Ulmo assigned unto me the keeping of this gift as we stood upon the Enchanted Isles. And as you slept, he bid me to now give it to you. Now," he said as he reached in his robe, "hold out your hand."

Rather hesitantly, Círdan put forth his open hand, uncertain as to what to expect. Mithrandir's hand was closed in a fist as he withdrew it from his grey raiment. And said fist hovered over Círdan's open palm for only a moment before he released whatever it was he was holding. Círdan felt a heavy weight drop into his palm, its surface smooth as a marble floor. Then Mithrandir withdrew his hand, enabling Círdan to finally see what it was he held. And the Mariner's breath caught and his eyes widened when he saw what it was.

A pearl.

But unlike any pearl he had ever seen in the long years of his life, even in ancient days. For it was even grander than Nimphelos, a pearl as great as a dove's egg that he had given to Thingol, who in turn had gifted it to the Dwarves. And the chieftain of the Dwarves had prized it above a mountain of wealth. For in the shallow waters about the Isle of Balar Círdan had found many fair pearls in great number, of which to Thingol he had gifted many. And the Dwarves, when given to them by Thingol, had held them dear to their heart akin as they would mithril. For the pearls had been the treasure of the Falmari, the wave-folk, and had been held in awe and wonder by all Races and people thereof. But Nimphelos had been the greatest of them all, in both beauty and size.

But this pearl…this pearl was so much greater, and Círdan felt tears line his eyes as he studied it in no small amount of amazement. Like Nimphelos, the pearl's sheen was as starlight on the foam of the sea. And its ethereal white shone with the brightness of the Moon, and upon deeply scrutinizing it, he could see within it the warm, white-hued colors of a setting Sun. And whereas Nimphelos had grown to the size of a dove's egg, this sea-gem was nigh on the length of his smallest finger. And he had long fingers. And with those now shaking fingers, Círdan traced the elegant grooves of the mighty pearl with touches hesitant and soft. At a meaningful cough from above, Círdan tore his gaze away from his gift and looked up at Mithrandir through blurred vision.

And Mithrandir looked down at him in amusement. "I take it this gift meets your approval?"

Círdan spoke nothing; he couldn't. For so long it had been the only desire of his heart to lay sight on a pearl of old, to lay sight on the precious gems the Sea-elves had treasured as much as the Dwarves did their mithril. And for millennia he had taken the occasional trip up the coast of Forlindon, even almost so far north as Himling, in the hope that perhaps a few pearls inside their shells might have washed up through the currents of the Waters to the shallows of Middle-earth's coast. And so far, it had all been for naught. And now to be presented with a pearl more beautiful and far greater than he had ever lain sight on before…what could he possibly say to that?

Mithrandir cocked his head, a glimmer of worry growing as he heard the Mariner's trembling breaths and saw the heavily tear-lined eyes. Círdan, he had come to learn, was not an Elf that cried. He was not even an Elf who thought about crying, from what he knew. "Are you well?"

And then Círdan laughed. Albeit the laugh was choked by a swell of emotion and tempered to barely a chuckle, but it was a laugh nonetheless. And Círdan continued to study the pearl in reverence, unable to take his eyes away. "Of course I am well," he spoke quietly. "I am simply overwhelmed. Why would he bequeath me with such a gift? I have done nothing to earn so great a treasure."

Mithrandir rolled his eyes and, with a tolerant smile, ambled over to the low rowing bench and sat down alongside him, resting the gnarled staff against his shoulders. "What reason would he need to give it to you? Very dear to him you are; is that not enough reason? Besides, Ulmo spoke no words to me of why he gives it to you, only to be sure that you receive it." He held out his hand. "Hand it to me, please."

In obvious reluctance, Círdan surrendered the pearl and placed it in Mithrandir's palm. And he watched as the Istar leaned across him and gently placed it in the upturned oyster shell, creating a perfect picture of the harmony of the Sea with that one swift action. And both Círdan and Mithrandir watched the two objects from the Waters, one a gem and one a silver plate, gently rock with the sway of the ship. And as they watched, Mithrandir spoke.

"Ere you inquire it of me, I will tell you that you are to touch neither shell nor pearl, not until I am no longer aboard the _Fëagaer_." Círdan raised a questioning brow and Mithrandir smiled. "Nay, I will attempt not to explain, but I know you will honor the request and touch neither of them until this voyage has ended."

Círdan nodded, not exactly caring what requests were made, for still greatly enamored by the pearl he was. "Thank you," he murmured.

Mithrandir shook his head. "Thank me not for the pearl, Círdan," he said. "Thank Ulmo for it. He simply tasked me with bearing and giving it to you for him. And I could not exactly refuse," he added with a hint of comicality. "The ire of Ulmo is something I never would endeavor to obtain."

A hint of a smile was once more seen. "I shall thank him," he said, "though I would argue he should give me naught, for the Vala Ulmo has given much to my people and me; far more than we are deserving of." He glanced back to the figure at the mast. "If Master Radagast will give even a sliver of the amount of attention to Mirkwood as the Vala Ulmo has given to us, mayhap some good will come of it."

Mithrandir too looked back at his colleague. "Good will come of it," he said, "for Radagast is correct; there are ways more subtle and effective to conquest the Shadow. Not all can be done – or should be done – through power alone."

"The Greenwood has no Ring of Power," Círdan interjected, for he was uncertain if the Maia was implying that Mirkwood used power to fight the evil of Dol Guldur, power that they did not even have. Or that they even needed it.

Mithrandir looked upon him with unhidden interest. "It is as I thought," he said, his tone of voice suggesting a victory. "You _do_ know more about the Elven Rings than what you lead us to believe. Being that you say the Greenwood is bereft of a Ring, does that then mean you know where the Three are located?"

Círdan turned to him suspiciously, sensing the mischievous air in the question. And with an enigmatic grin that he could not withhold, he spoke, "My silence is kept."

Mithrandir pursed his lips, though his eyes twinkled fervently. "You trust me not."

Círdan shook his head, a tolerant grin still in place. "I do indeed trust you, which in itself is rare, for the trust I place in others only comes with the passage of time. And indeed, they are few in whom my trust has been placed. But though I trust you, the tongue is most deceptive and persuasive to loosen the tongues of others. But my silence is kept, and my silence is one of the reasons _I_ can be trusted."

Gandalf nodded in consent of the fact. "Indeed that is so, for otherwise you would not be on this voyage." He then leaned over and, in a teasing whisper, he spoke, "Yet some may say that silence does not always suggest wisdom."

Círdan slowly looked over at him, cynical humor alight in his eyes and a knowing grin touching the corner of his mouth. He recognized the not-so-subtle jest of bringing up the matter of wisdom once more. "Yet, learned I have long ago that the beginning of wisdom is silence, followed by listening in your silence, followed by committing to memory of that what you listened to, followed by practicing that which you had committed to memory, followed by mastering that which you practiced, and lastly teaching that which you have mastered."

Mithrandir stared at him for a long, hard moment before the smile finally broke through. And at Círdan's challenging stare for him to debate further, he chuckled warmly. "You do think like a Maia, Círdan, for I was not expecting that answer to come from an Elf." He then furrowed his brow and sighed mirthlessly. He raised a gentle hand and held Círdan's face, and the Mariner looked at him with a question in his eyes. "But then you are old, and the Ages of the World are sketched upon your visage and you have seen more than the elderly of Middle-earth have seen. Nay, not even Elves of Aman could claim to have seen that which your eyes have witnessed." He dropped his hand and smiled. "But let that be enough of this melancholy. I will allow your silence concerning the Elven Rings, for it is indeed wise to keep such secrecy." A thoughtful haze passed over his visage. "Yet deduced, I should have, that the darkening Greenwood had no Ring of Power, for the Three warn of the growth of the Shadow and thereby enable the Elves in their strength to resist it. Alas, the tree-song is dying under the Shadow and passage of time."

"The Wood-elves have no need of a Ring," Círdan interjected with considerable spirit. "In my eyes, their strength of arms and dedication to protect their homeland is matched by no other. Aye, the reach of the Shadow lengthens in the Woodland Realm bit by bit every year, but the Elves are strong in spirit and mind, and none are encouraged to leave their Wood. Ever since the Battle of the Last Alliance, Thranduil has driven them endlessly with a military discipline foreign to the other Elven realms. At the cost of even his own life he would see his people remain unconquered." A fond smile creased his face as he thought of him. "It is no wonder that the Elves show such loyalty to him."

"Yes," Mithrandir said thoughtfully, drumming his fingers along his staff. "Indeed, I know Thranduil is a great Elvenking."

Círdan looked at him a tad skeptically as a fine eyebrow rose in question. "Of that, how could you possibly know?"

"You mean aside from the words of the Valar?" he asked with a warm smile. Círdan nodded and Mithrandir chuckled. "How I know is very simple; if Thranduil is anything like his father, he is a good king. There need not be any other reason."

At a loss Círdan remained for only a moment ere his eyes dawned in understanding. And this time, he could not stop the thrilled smile from breaking through. "Oropher has been reborn?"

Mithrandir smiled at the wonder and delight unconcealed in Círdan's eyes. "Aye, he has, along with many of the Woodland Elves once slain." And then he chuckled. "When first I met him, his fierce valiance and strength of spirit and mind rather shocked me, despite him now living in Valinor. Not all Elves I have met, but the only Elf I can now name who superseded him in valiance is Fingolfin."

Círdan nodded, able to concur with that. "Only the bravest – or perhaps the most foolhardy – were able to stand against him when involving the safety of his people."

Mithrandir's smile grew. "Exactly; thus, if Thranduil is anything like his father, he is a great king."

"Greater," Círdan corrected. "For within the music of the rivers and streams and amidst the whispered tales among the Elves, it is told that Thranduil is the greatest king the Silvan Elves had ever known."

Mithrandir grunted in something akin to amusement. "I would dare not to question that, for his Woodland kin who have been reborn also stick to him as sap to a tree." He chortled. "Fiercely loyal they remain in a land where Oropher claims no kingship. Though due to this, it is rumored that Oropher is starting a small colony for his people, alongside the Woods of Oromë."

"Your words bring me great delight to hear he is at peace," Círdan spoke softly. "Even amidst the Greenwood's prosperity, Oropher had remained ever defiant of Sauron, as he proved in the Last Alliance. And now Thranduil is doing the same." He looked to the stars in curiosity. "It is beyond my sight why Sauron is targeting the Greenwood so much more than any other realm."

"It goes back to the domination of will that Curunír spoke of," Mithrandir answered. "Either that or death. But is it that you could imagine the strength Sauron would possess if he had the Elves of Mirkwood at his command?"

Despite the calm and serenity surrounding them, Círdan felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought.

"But yes, he is at peace, though he denies not missing his son greatly," Mithrandir continued. "From any weariness and hurt he has healed in the Halls of Mandos. And though he has proclaimed to have had no devotion – or love even – for the Valar, he is grateful that they offer such healing in their land untouched by darkness." He sighed and in his eyes Círdan could see the bitter disappointment. "Through his words I had seen something many Elves today now take advantage of; a great gift so many had been doomed to remain without, for at their corruption at the hands of Morgoth their souls were condemned to wander endlessly in Ennor for time without end."

"Why did you not come to capture Morgoth sooner?" Círdan asked in monotone. He remembered. Oh Valar, how he remembered the centuries of fear the Elves of Cuiviénen had to endure with no hope of reprieve. He remembered the terror instilled deep in every mind as Elves had continued to disappear and never return. He remembered the horror palpable in the air when shadow-shapes had been seen walking in the hills above Cuiviénen, or would be passing suddenly over the stars; and of the dark Rider upon his wild horse that had pursued those that wandered to take them and devour them. He remembered the despair felt in every spirit at having known that there were no means by which to defeat that. And for an endless time, he had wondered why Oromë had not come sooner, why the Valar had only come to wage war on Morgoth after centuries of his abuse. Why not sooner?

A compressing silence fell and Mithrandir studied the Mariner with a piercing eye. And only when they sat long in silence did Círdan start to grow wary of it.

"We did not know," he said simply, though not without an apologetic note. "When first you had seen Oromë was when first the Valar had known that the Quendi had awoken; Morgoth knew from the beginning. And long centuries had passed ere we first beheld in wonder the Elves on the shores. Sooner we would have come had we found you earlier. We simply did not know."

Círdan slowly nodded; though by the answer he looked unhappy, he was resigned to it. "Once more, the simplest answers prevail."

"Círdan," he said, concern evident in his voice. "Long have such questions haunted you, albeit never have you let them torment you. Why is it that you never have inquired Ulmo of these things?"

Círdan gave a small shrug, his thoughts troubled. "I thought to, but too greatly do I respect and love him to ask such trivial questions. No other on Arda has my devotion and admiration as he does, and I wanted not such questions to sound as accusations."

Mithrandir gave a wry grin. "How wonderful to know that you respect me less," he lightly murmured. And then he grew serious. "Believe you that such questions are accusations?"

Círdan shook his head. "No," he said. "But how words are received make all the change in the world and amidst my confusion and anger, only the Valar know how the words would have sounded."

"_Exactly_," Mithrandir emphasized and Círdan looked at him in question. "Ulmo knows your mind, Mariner, more so than any other being." He shook his head, almost in sympathetic amazement. "He needs not words from your mouth to know of the turmoil of your heart."

Círdan nodded, his gaze cast down to the water. "I know," he murmured. He looked down into the water and said again, "I know," with more conviction, for he could feel the eyes of Ulmo on him. He looked back at Mithrandir, remaining ever conscious of Ulmo's presence. "But the Vala Ulmo is ever busy. Know you that I am aware of that more than most, and therefore his time need not be taken up by such trivial questions."

Mithrandir shook his head, marveled. "There you go again." He leaned forward on his staff and cocked his head. "For what reason could you believe that those specific questions are _trivial_?" He looked at Círdan incredulously. "Aye, long past are such events, but Elven memory is strong. And ever, it remained unto you as turmoil. And all the while such ponderings could have been put at rest if but answered. Given, you may not have healed from such memories, but it would have been at least the start of peace. How can the turmoil within you caused by such questions be _trivial_?"

Círdan looked at the Maia and gave a small, tender smile. "You already said it, Master," he said calmly, not at all shaken by the truths he just spoke. "It was the turmoil within _me_. The Vala Ulmo is the greatest aid to the Elves of Middle-earth and my love for Middle-earth is greater than my desire to know answers of _trivial_ questions." He added the emphasis as though almost daring the Maia to argue differently. "As you spoke, such events are long past and deeds done. All that could be salvaged from the answers of said questions is my peace of mind. And _my peace_ is of no great importance to the fate of Middle-earth."

Mithrandir shook his head, staring at Círdan in disbelief and with a tolerant grin. "A Sinda you certainly are, stubborn as can be."

Círdan grinned. "I will not deny being set in my ways, Master." He then sighed and shook himself, as though to disperse the cloud of melancholy that had come over them.

Mithrandir raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Círdan, why do you not call me by my name, 'Mithrandir'? Furthermore, you seem to have rejected the offer given by the Istari to call us by name, as you seem to have done with Ulmo and Ossë. Always you place a title before the name, calling us 'Master' or 'my lord'. Why?"

Círdan shrugged. "Why should I not? To all of higher power I am inferior and I accept that. And calling you as such is one of the ways seldom I have to show my respect. Callous I am not to call you otherwise."

A mischievous light shone in his eyes. "What if being formal with us offends us?"

Though remaining impassive, Círdan could not quite hide the alarm he felt at such a notion. "If so, then I shall apologize and do as you ask; to offend is not my intention."

"Be calm, my friend," he said in exasperation. "Offended we are not, but I _do_ suggest you become used to calling us by name. For on the Hither Shores we must remain incognito, appearing as forms humble and insignificant. Suffice it to say that being called 'master' or 'my lord' will achieve the opposite."

For only a moment did he remain in thought ere Círdan nodded his head. "You speak with logic, thus I shall do as you say…Mithrandir." The word tasted foreign on his tongue, but Mithrandir's bright smile dissolved any discomfort.

_Nówë, come below_.

Círdan heard the command and swiftly stood. Mithrandir stood with him and to him, Círdan lightly bowed. "I apologize, but I must go."

"I know," he said with a grin, keeping no longer the pretext of being unaware of the Vala's presence. "Go, my friend, and I will see you soon."

Círdan nodded, and with one last reverent look at the pearl resting along the low bench, he made for the open hatch. But Mithrandir's quick words stopped him ere he could enter the crew's cabin.

"The net, Círdan; where does it go?"

Círdan looked back at the fishing net still hanging against the hull from its belaying pins and gestured towards the rowing bench where the shell and pearl rested. "Underneath there against the beam. Why?"

He looked at said location. "I would store it away if you permit it."

_Nówë_.

Círdan looked again to the hatch, painfully aware that his lord should not be kept waiting. And towards the net tied off he waved a hand in dismissal. "Do what you want." With that, Círdan slipped through the hatch and down the steep step ladder. And amidst the dark, down the crewman's passage he began to walk.

And Círdan halted his steps, staring with eyes unblinking at the closed door to the helmsman's quarters. The crew's cabin was dark as night and the vicinity of his helmsman's quarters were doused in shadow. But through the minimal space between door and frame, and through each miniscule sliver of the door itself, light so bright and powerful forced its way through, shining brighter and more blinding than anything Círdan had seen, including all the Silmarils' light together combined. It was as though on the opposite side of that door, the space within was too small to contain such light, such colorless fire shining through a thousand crystals and emanating brighter than the Stars of Varda. Such ethereal light looked to burst forth from the room, as though the door was all that stopped it from flooding outward. And he felt wonder and delight flood his system as he saw it, for even the Sun was shadowed in it. And though he knew it to be his imagination, Círdan thought he could hear the strain of the wood as it tried to contain his light.

_His_ light. Not _a_ light or _the_ light…_his_ light. For within his heart (and based on past experience), he knew that Ulmo was here, and not just in spirit. And though blinded and taken of breath by such radiance, it was not that which halted Círdan's steps, tempting him to stagger backwards. No, it was the raw power that came at him like a blow, crashing against him as a wave of stone, bending his desire to drop to his knees. Even all the power the three Istari projected together dimmed in comparison. And with a thin thread of restraint he managed to stop his hand from clutching his chest.

But, feeling his heart pound a little harder, he walked towards that door. And the Music of the Sea grew louder with each step, so loud that he could no longer hear his own breathing, or the breaking waves of the ocean. And the peace from the Great Music entered his heart with sharp contrast to the fear that also indwelled it. So strange was it that now, with each step, the fear within his heart grew, but so also did his yearning to see his lord; a healthy fear instilled in his mind entwined with a friendship engraved on his heart. But Círdan stepped up to the door and his hand hovered over the latch for only a second before he grabbed hold of it and entered.

And the light emerged like a river through a burst dam.

Not even three seconds passed after the door shut behind him. And in those three seconds, after his eyesight adjusted to the light – after squinting nearly shut in the brightness of it – Círdan cast around his gaze. And there on his bed sat the Vala Ulmo. And at the sight of the majestic being, Círdan felt his knees weaken and, on the third second, he fell to his knees, his body's weight pressing on his heels, and bowed his head, for the sight of the Vala's form was too terrible to look upon, and yet so wondrous. And Círdan had not the courage to stand before him without humbling himself first.

"My lord," he murmured, his voice scarcely audible and yet, in the resounding silence, it sounded like a shout.

And at his mumbled words, the Vala Ulmo stood from the bed with nary a sound, looking down upon his lone subject with fiery eyes. The Dweller of the Deep was robed to the middle in mail like the scales of blue and silver fishes; but his hair was a bluish silver and his beard to his feet was of the same hue, and he bore neither helm nor crown. Beneath his mail fell the skirts of his kirtle of shimmering greens, and of what substance these were woven Círdan knew not, but when he in past had looked into the depths of their subtle colors, the Mariner beheld the faint movements of deep waters shot with stealthy lights of phosphorescent fish that lived in the abyss. Girt was Ulmo with a rope of mighty pearls, and he was shod with mighty shoes of stone.

Seldom was it, Círdan knew, that Ulmo clothed himself in a body. Only thrice had he done so before Círdan, and each time the Mariner was filled with a great dread, his heart positively hammering within his chest with fear inconceivable before he remembered that he had been befriended by the Vala, and had no cause to fear. Seeing him in his incorporeal form, as he had at the start of this journey, was different and easier to bear, for it was but a glimpse amongst the waves of how terrible and strong a figure Ulmo possessed, tempering the reality to but a dream. And having beheld it but thrice before, Círdan had failed to recall the majestic ferocity and fiery spirit he radiated in physical form, the strength and power he wielded with but one hand over all the Waters. But nonetheless, Círdan remained kneeling on the floor with his head bowed, not daring to move without express permission to do so.

Stone-shod feet (and beard) came within the sight of his downcast eyes and, not a second later, Círdan felt powerful hands encase his shoulders, gripping them with iron strength. And Círdan had but a second to feel the warmth from the strong hands suffuse his being before he was hauled up to full height, standing on his own two feet. But still, his gaze and head were cast down and the Mariner absently observed the raiment he saw only three times prior in his life; clothed in these garments, despite them representing the Sea, Círdan knew, he appeared so royal and kingly that even the most ignorant mind would be left with no doubt of who the King of the Seas really was. But cast in astonishment was Círdan's gaze upon Ulmo's girdle of mighty pearls, and he was too shocked and humbled to look away from it.

For amidst the many gems of the Sea, one of the pearls was missing.

And the voice he had heard a thousand times before spoke once again. _Nówë, look at me_.

The command was soft, but Círdan could not help but shiver as he heard the words spill forth from Ulmo's mouth, now spoken into his ears instead of his mind. And a fine wired shudder ran through him greatly, for the depth of the voice of Ulmo was of the uttermost depth, even as deep as his eyes, which were the deepest of all things. And softly spoken were his thunderous tones, for the Mariner knew, again through past experience, that the full, powerful resonance of his voice could damage the hearing of even an Elf.

But as ever before, Círdan obeyed and looked up into the face of Ulmo, into his eyes that held no color, for too star-bright they were to distinguish any possible hue. Though stern and fierce beyond the point of Elven tolerance, his visage was the epitome of calm and gentle as he peered deeply into Círdan's eyes. And as Círdan looked up into Ulmo's piercing eyes, he beheld the deep love and compassion Ulmo did not hide, the unshakeable friendship and companionship Ulmo had granted him so long ago, unworthy as he was of it. Still, the Vala held him firm and within the depths of Círdan's heart, in the furthest reaches of his fëa, he felt Ulmo touch him and speak to him without the utterance of words, with the strength and dedication of one who knew Círdan better than any other. The Mariner felt the Vala's unconquerable spirit encompass him in warmth and security. And with a small smile upon his mouth, the Vala tempered Círdan's fear until it was but a seed.

And Círdan smiled a smile that shone in his eyes, feeling that foundation of friendship blossom until at its full capacity. Never in the past, Círdan recalled absently, had Ulmo spoken with him until he walked alongside him on the shore or looked upon him without fear. And Círdan recalled all times prior again, for he knew it was Ulmo's intention that he did.

"My lord," he said again, his voice no longer trembling with healthy fear, but with the respect he had long held for this Vala. "What do you bid me to do?"

And once more, Ulmo swept his long fingers along the side of Círdan's face, the touch light and feather soft. _Nothing is left_, he said, the softness of his voice belying the power of his mien. _Of all you were bidden to do, you have done_.

For long in silence Círdan looked at him, swarming with uncertainty and bewilderment within. And he bowed his head, barely compressing a sigh. "Forgive my lack of understanding, my lord, but what have I done? I remain ever in the dark."

With his long fingers, Ulmo lifted Círdan's chin until their eyes again met. _You obeyed my command to be at peace_, he answered. _Through your oath of silence you have aided our emissaries and a great abundance that shall be; for many a time ere the Age will wane the Istari shall come to seek counsel with you_.

"And they shall have my service should they request it," he added without qualm. "But, lord, I…." His words trailed off in his hesitancy, but Ulmo garnered his attention ere he lost his willingness to speak freely.

_Ask it_, Ulmo commanded, though not impolitely.

Círdan drew in a deep breath. "Why am I on this voyage?" he asked. "By your hand they could have sailed the Straight Path to the Hither Shores, and yet to send me amongst your Great Sea you elected." He paused and slightly shook his head. "I disparage not your choices made. I only wonder at them."

And with both chiseled hands Ulmo held firm Círdan's face, piercing the Mariner's grey eyes with his own orbs of fire. And within those orbs of fire Círdan was rendered breathless at the sudden swell of passion, the sudden swell of conviction coated in pain unconcealed. _Never again, child_, he spoke, and Círdan was overwhelmed by the drive in his words._ Never again let it go unasked. Never again unto me put forth such silence. Never again let turmoil reign when it may be conquered. For all times you stood amidst my seas I felt your sorrow. And from all streams and rivers are words carried to me, and thereby do I taste the cry of your song. Though it may be indwelt in your mind that your harmony of spirit matters naught to Middle-earth, it matters to me. Unto you I say, Nówë, to never again remain silent_.

Círdan attempted not to refute the words, for he deserved such chastisement, however subtle and gentle it be delivered. He cast down his gaze, his desire to bow withheld by the hands holding him firm still. "I am sorry, my lord," he said quietly, willing that Ulmo feel the truth of the words in his mind. "I sought not to give you distress. If you will demand it, I –"

_Nówë,_ he interrupted firmly. And when Círdan looked up he could see in Ulmo's eyes both amusement and exasperation. And then he smiled. _Unto you no chastisement will ever be bequeathed, for you are your greatest chastiser_.

Círdan gave a wan, embarrassed smile and bowed his head, minutely shaking it in self-condemnation. "I should have asked."

_Aye, you should have_.

"Is that why you commanded me on this voyage?" he asked. "To obtain answers to questions long buried?"

_Under the depths of my Waters on this voyage I placed much thought_, he spoke, and the reverberations of his deep voice could be felt. _And through the admittance of my King par my counsel you were sent, for the Valar entrust only unto you the secrecy of the Istari, and to no other Elf of either the Lands Hither or Undying shall it be known. But of other reasons more personal and deep you were also sent, among them, aye, achieving clarity long needed to events of your past_.

There was a pause as Círdan attempted to regain his wits; he failed miserably. "I am humbled by the trust you and the Valar place in me," he spoke softly. "I know its value and will abuse it never, that I swear. But if I may ask, what other reasons do you speak of as to why I am traversing this voyage?"

_Since the dawn of this voyage when I called you from your slumber, you have been tested and are being tested still_.

Círdan looked upon the Lord of Waters in alarm. "I am being tested?" he asked in horror, his heart thudding just a little harder in his chest. "Why am I being tested? And how?"

_Aye, you are being tested_, Ulmo spoke, speaking no further words to Círdan's inquiries. _And now I request of you to let me finish the test_.

Círdan stared at him in no small amount of apprehension. "What are you going to do?"

_Trust me, Nówë_.

Long they stood in deafening silence ere Círdan released a pent up breath and nodded his head, briefly pondering why he had hesitated in the first place.

And then the deafening moment of silence passed as Círdan tensed when Ulmo lifted his arms. But, with not a sound, the Vala gathered the Mariner against his chest, his powerful arms encasing him as a cocoon. And at the stiffness still of Círdan's back, Ulmo took a hand and rested it along Círdan's silver head. The beard was silk beneath his cheek and the shimmering mail as pebbles in a stream under his fingers. But still, Círdan was hesitant and unsure.

_Nówë, hide no longer_.

The deep rumbling whisper pierced his mind and Círdan broke, fully and completely, any remnants of strength or willpower deserting him, any reserves of dignity shredding before him, as he collapsed limply against the Vala's form, the strength of his limbs leaving him. For amidst the embrace he was released, his soul reaching and screaming out for some vestige of comfort unfounded in Ennor. Cast down were all barriers and all stones torn apart, and all was lain bare; every fear, every joy, every terror, every assault upon the Elven spirit, every thought forgotten and ignored and every wish and desire hidden even from himself. In darkness his mind and soul laid unclothed to his lord, and he felt Ulmo's spirit possess him, reaching to the furthest corner of his fëa as an almighty wind, leaving no barrier erect, no secret in shadow. And his mind, spirit, and body crumbled under the intensity of the Vala's spirit, of his fiery essence.

And his senses deserted him; the stars wielded overhead and mountains moved, the ground shifting beneath him as he felt fire kindled within. And the Vala's kindling spirit of fire and strength surged through him with the might of a storm until he was given completely, until nothing more remained in his control. And in a gentle vice his fëa was squeezed in a continual pressure, and for but a moment Círdan panicked at the depth of the invasion, but then was soothed when he felt any and all cracks and wounds sealed, any welts and fractures healed. His mind was unbound, suffused with freedom from all burden, all thought and worry piled and long buried. And every second of his ancient life unraveled and was taken, until no memory remained on the forefront. Filth was cleansed and darkness shriveled under the ethereal brightness indwelling him. And as a small, steady stream, weariness dispersed, fatigue seeping from limbs until nonexistent.

The Sea…amidst the Sea he now dwelled. The Sun shown in gentle rays through the pure water. The breath of the Deep resounded in his ear, deep and powerful, summoning the rise and fall of the tide. His heart beat in rhythm with the Sea until they became one and his being surged with the depths of the Waters. It washed over him, enveloping him in comforting warmth, lifting him to heights beyond the reaches of the world and down beneath the depths of the living. Chains were unbound and burdens uplifted. His soul was opened. He was free. He was alive…he was young again. No swell of land, no beechen leaves, no shining snow, no keen mountain-air…the fishes swarmed, the whales cried and the Song of Ilúvatar resounded. He drifted across white sand and gave himself unto the endless glassy swells. He felt a long hand guide him and he was home. By all blessings of the Valar, he was home….

And then it was gone. It was all gone. As though waking from a dream, Círdan slowly opened his eyes as his other senses returned to him. As his vision cleared, he felt the silk-spun beard like a pillow beneath his cheek. He heard the deep breathing and felt the rise and fall of the chest he lay on. He felt the solid floor beneath his feet and the powerful arms holding him still, and the warm hand resting on his crown.

And as though a switch flipped, he started breathing again, slowly and deeply. And though held amidst comfort, the weariness returned unto his spirit, and the fatigue immersed back into his body. And, unable to conceal his disappointment and bitter sadness, he knew then that he was back on his ship, sailing amidst the Sundering Sea, coming ever closer to Mithlond. Gathering his strength, he pushed himself up until standing firmly on his own feet, bracing himself against Ulmo's broad chest, for he was shaking. And he lifted his eyes to those of the Vala's that were gazing at him with a calm gentleness.

"What was that?" he asked quietly, almost fearfully. "A trance I felt to enter, a great healing that carried me home. But no more, for I feel once again the weariness and exhaustion." He paused as he continued to look into Ulmo's compassionate eyes and knew he couldn't hide the sorrow in his. "Was it but a dream?"

And Ulmo grinned, not relinquishing his hold. _Nay, a dream it was not, for it was but a taste of healing at my hand. All answers shall be revealed in time, so of it inquire no more, for it is done. And you have passed the test_.

Amidst his confusion, Círdan accepted the words and trusted in them, for there were no greater words he could trust. "I pretend not to understand all of what just happened, but I ask your forgiveness of my bitterness from being withdrawn from your healing. Never have I felt so at peace or at home, and amidst my selfishness I only want to go there again. And though the healing was temporary, I thank you for it, for in both body and spirit I feel rejuvenated. And such a blessing I do not believe I deserve."

Círdan meant to once more kneel, but Ulmo held him firm to his feet when he tried. So instead, he went to bow his head, but Ulmo lifted his chin with long fingers. And so, the Mariner was left standing before him, his eyes held in place by the Vala's own. "Thank you," he whispered, and he put all the heartfelt sincerity into the words he could. But it was in error, for as his mind was laid bare, the sincerity was unhidden from the Vala.

And finally, Ulmo relinquished his hold and stepped back, gesturing lightly towards Círdan's rumpled clothing. _Prepare yourself for slumber, for ere long after you wake you shall arrive in Mithlond_.

And the Mariner did as commanded. And as he undressed, hanging his raiment once more on the beams overhead, Ulmo sat again on his bed, watching and waiting in patience for his subject to finish. And only when the last garment was hung did he gesture for Círdan to sit on the bed alongside him. And, of course, Círdan obeyed, despite the question in his eyes. And once he sat, Ulmo reached with both hands and gently ran his long fingers through Círdan's silver hair.

And immediately, all the knots and tangles yielded to the touch of Ulmo's fingers, unraveling as long grass in a prairie wind. Over and over again did Ulmo brush his fingers through the hair with a tenderness, and he did so until the silver tresses fell forth over his shoulders and against his skin as a sheen waterfall in Lórien's Gardens. And Círdan had closed his eyes against the relaxing hands, unconsciously rocking sleepily with the soothing touch. And as the Vala worked until every strand was laid in perfection, he spoke quietly into Círdan's ear.

_Deep in the recesses of your mind I see there a question unanswered_, he said. _Ask it_.

A small smile creased Círdan's elderly face, though he was overwhelmed with humility when the question was brought to the surface. "Why did you gift me with a pearl of your girdle?" he asked in a whisper, for he again felt tears sting his eyes at the mere thought of it. "So kingly was that gift, and I know I have done no great deeds worthy of it."

With another touch feather soft, Ulmo turned Círdan's face towards his own, his eyes boring into the Elf's all the heartfelt sincerity that could ever be conjured. _You are deserving of so much more_, he spoke softly, _for you have ever walked without pride and lowered yourself to the Valar's command, even though you never had laid sight on them or owed them any sense of loyalty. And this I do say; the Valar, once you sail, shall bequeath you with a reward to honor all your selfless acts in our name, and it shall exceed the greatest – and only – desire of your heart_.

And in Círdan Ulmo could see that the Elf did not understand, for too distant was he from his own desires to see what lay beneath the words the Vala had spoken. But ere Círdan could once more question him, Ulmo spoke again, running his fingers a few more times through his hair, ensuring all knots were untangled.

_But only from me was the pearl gifted_, he continued. _It is as Olórin spoke; no deeds of valor had earned you my pearl, for I know well your heart and mind and spirit. And only the foolish believe that great deeds are all that define a person. And it is all else but your deeds performed that I saw you have earned it_. He then gave a small, rare smile; one of teasing and delight. _You are my friend, and par the words of Olórin; need there be any other reason?_

And Círdan smiled in return. But there were no words he could speak, no words to express how utterly thankful he was, for the pearl, for his friendship, for everything. But Círdan knew that no words needed to be spoken, for as he felt the swell of raw emotions rage inside, so he also knew that Ulmo felt them within him as well. And Ulmo stood, pushing back the light sheets of the bed.

_Come, Nówë_, he spoke, pulling Círdan by the hand to his feet. _It is time for you to sleep, for the day shall rage with life anew when you awake. Until we speak again, sleep well, my child._

And Círdan slipped under the covers, that familiar haze of drowsiness already overcoming him. And he briefly felt the covers being tucked around him ere his consciousness was blanketed and taken into the wondrous realm of dreams and deep slumber.

To be continued….

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><p><span>Next chapter<span>: Insanity begins.

**A/N:** If long chapters aren't your taste, I apologize. This chapter simply became longer than I had planned. Again. But please review; I'd greatly appreciate it. I know we now basically see why Círdan is on this voyage, but the true reason and full import of Ulmo's words won't be revealed till the very last chapter (and if all goes to plan, that'll be Ch. 9). Please review!


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see Chapter 1.

**A/N:** I'm sorry this came over a week late. No excuse, I just haven't been in the mood to write, which was not helped by a severe case of writer's block. For all reading this story, I thank you for your wonderful patience with this. I know that the chapters are long with a seemingly slow plot, and it certainly has been a challenge to write. But at least the story will now start to be concluded (finally! right?) and come to what this whole story is supposed to be about; namely Círdan making a crucial decision. With that, I would also like to give my unending thanks to **Lia Whyteleafe**, **GreenGreatDragon**, **Sadie** **Sil**, and **Zammy** for your wonderful reviews. I don't get many for this story, so I sincerely mean it when I say that every word you write means so much to me. And on a sad note, for any readers who are Ulmo fans, the last chapter was Ulmo's last appearance, whether by voice or body. BUT, he still has a major part to play in the story, never fear. Alright, enough of this chatter. I hope you enjoy!

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><p>"O! let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!"<br>~ William Shakespeare, _King_ _Lear _

**Chapter 7**

Círdan was robbed of his slumber as his mind registered the repetitive knocks, curt and loud, sounding on the door with the obvious intent to wake him. He shook his head, his mind still clouded with sleep, and from under the covers rolled out, without the realization that he did so.

"What is it?" he called, hearing the urgency behind the knocks.

And the muffled voice of Radagast came through the door. "Master Mariner, I would that you would rise from your slumber and captain the _Fëagaer_, for alas, now such mastery is beyond the limits of our skill."

His mind still muddled from sleep, Círdan had seldom few seconds to register what it was that Radagast was implying ere his instinctive helmsman skills and sea-faring senses came to the fore. And he then understood the Istar's urgency, for amidst the endless rocking of the ship's hull he could feel her strain and shudder as she combated the fierce, ocean swells on her own, without any hand to guide her. And though beneath deck, he could hear the strong roar of wind outside and the crashing waves. And before Círdan was aware of it, he was out of his bed and quickly throwing on his apparel and boots, knowing he had a few minutes at most before she veered severely off course.

"I am on my way," he called through the door.

"Very good."

Ere he could react to the words, the _Fëagaer_ suddenly jolted, sending Círdan staggering against the bed posts as he attempted to maintain balance, and Círdan knew that the ship's prow must have just collided headlong into the trough of an approaching wave. He had to get above deck _now_; he knew not where they were, but the deep water apparently had a mind of its own.

Leaving his hair unbound, Círdan left his quarters, rushed across the crew's cabin and practically flew up the step ladder, instinctively pushing up the hatch as he went. And not a second later after surfacing the deck, Círdan tightly closed his eyes against the bright array of light that suddenly blinded him. He staggered, feeling his way out of the hatch, and only when he grabbed hold of one of the nearby shrouds did he slowly open his eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the sudden light. He hadn't seen sunshine since before the voyage had begun, after all.

And the day was pristine and beautiful with the noon Sun blazing high and bright. And wisps of Círdan's silver hair blew across his face as he cast his gaze up at the heavens, perusing the patterns caused by the crosswinds of the high altitudes that blew the white clouds across the skies. A thrilling sense of exhilaration overcame him, as it always did when he sailed a vessel across the seas. But feeling the ship again shudder under his feet, all while the deck was plunging and shifting several meters at a time, he tore his thoughts away from the elements and headed towards the stern, where he could see the wooden tiller fanning rapidly back and forth from the force of the water.

He rushed past the Istari, barely sparing them a passing glance, as they stood alongside the port gunwale, each with a firm hold on one of the shrouds in an obvious attempt to maintain the balance that only sea-farers of great familiarity could maintain with little effort. And with an ease born of long experience, Círdan took hold of the tiller in both hands, forcing it to do as he commanded.

His feet sturdily braced apart, he dragged on the wooden bar, heaving the _Fëagaer_'s prow upwind against the thrust on the mainsail, thereby compensating the force of the waves as they slammed against her. And Círdan glanced up at the stretch of sheen, white canvas; the rigging of the sail, still set at an angle on the starboard side of the mast, hummed with the wind of their passage and the deck slightly vibrated underfoot.

And Círdan inwardly smiled; this was a perfect day for a perfect voyage and he was enjoying every second of it.

The _Fëagaer_, with her curving, triangular sail, whose boom was set at a steep angle to the vertical mast, was swooping eagerly over the small waves, with the wind on her port beam. With this wind and speed, there was no need for rowers, despite how much Círdan knew the presence of oarsmen would make the passage along the water swifter, for the whole ship was in a delicate state of balance; wind, power of the waves, and steering oar created a triangle of conflicting forces that resulted in the ship holding its present headway. Disturb one of those elements, thereby allowing the remaining forces to war with each other, and the result would be some moments of ensuing chaos until order was restored.

And it was at that moment Círdan realized that Ulmo was gone.

The realization came from nowhere, prompted by no thought. A small part in the back of his mind registered the absence of the power-indwelt King of the Seas, of his comforting and intimidating presence, of his majestic essence and aura that made it feel as though time had stopped. And likewise, the peace he had long enjoyed and partaken in during this voyage…it also was gone, leaving him once more feeling every single one of his years. Ulmo's hand was no longer guiding his ship, which explained Radagast's request, more so command, to come on deck and captain his vessel. But he still detected a foreign presence amongst the air and instinctively knew who it was; Ossë might not be driving the ship as Ulmo had been, but Círdan was convinced that he certainly was in command of the wind at the moment. As well as the temperament of the waves, he guessed. Keeping the rolling swells small and endurable all the while sending the wind from astern along the port beam made Círdan's job of guiding the ship much easier.

Yes, it was Ossë, for Ulmo had said that Círdan would not man the ship alone. But he couldn't deny that he missed Ulmo greatly. And his heart became heavy and dismayed, aching at his absence; only the Valar knew whether a day or millennia would pass by until he saw or spoke with him again.

But Círdan shook his head, keeping on with a firm grasp on the tiller, refusing to allow any disappointment divert him from the task at hand. There were lives on board and, thereby, in his care, and he would be damned if he allowed something so selfish and pitiful as his disappointment to risk danger to them. His mind kept sharp, Círdan continued to ride the waves in smooth and perfect rapture. And leaving the ship to sail her course alone for only a moment, Círdan went to the portside and leaned over the gunwale with a firm hold on the backstay. And doing so, he cast his gaze far across the waters in effort to see their destination. And all too soon, he saw it; in the distance he could see the towering spires and elegant stone structure of his Havens, their western walls white-crusted from the endless bombardment of salty air. The aged city was a blur on the horizon, appearing when the _Fëagaer_ rode the crest of a wave and then disappearing as she cleaved to the trough.

And the distance rapidly closed. Peering along the scarcely visible shore, Círdan, once more at the tiller, could just make out the peaked watchtower set in the lower reaches of the Ered Luin that was mapped as the northern arm of the narrowest harbor mouth of the Gulf of Lhûn. And suddenly, at its summit, Círdan saw a bright flash of light erupt, only to remain a blazing dance of flickering fire, and the Shipwright furrowed his brow; what had possessed the Elves on duty to light the beacon? It was only ever lit at night to signify the northern breakwater to any incoming vessels. Not a second after the thought, his keen eyes caught the equally bright flash of another light on the opposite shore, the oil-coated lumber of the beacon now intensely ablaze. And Círdan allowed a small, touched smile to upturn the corners of his mouth, for he realized that the unusual igniting of both beacons _must_ have been the signal to the Sea-elves that their lord's ship had been spotted coming into port. Humbled as he was by his people's expectancy of his return, he hoped that they hadn't worried or doubted his survival.

A long time four months was to be gone, after all, and with no guarantee that he would be coming back at that.

And in little to no time, the _Fëagaer_ passed through the harbor mouth, and Círdan eyes alit with a smile as he made out the silhouettes of Elves leaning over the stone railings of the watchtowers, peering down at his ship with obvious eagerness lining their postures and bright smiles lighting their faces. The blur of the Havens became a clear outline, their smooth granites reflecting the bright sunlight. And the forest of towering masts and reefed sails of the fleet came into sight, looming high and bobbing with the motion of the water.

And she sailed pass his own home, the house of stone looking as normal as could be at the peak of the narrow buttress of rock and earth. And the remaining few miles of travel were swiftly eaten up as the ship crossed over the harbor line. And Círdan, peering along the northern and southern jetties, could see the milling crowds of people lining the docks behind the ships.

And as his gaze was cast towards the butt of the southern jetty, Círdan felt a true smile touch his face. Though just shy of a league away, with his keen eyes Círdan could see Ëarhín leaning against the last bollard of the dock, unflustered by the considerable drop to the water before him. And though far away, the bright smile on the face of his first mate was evident.

And behind the Captain of the Shipyard Círdan could spy, standing with a stillness only possessed by an Elf, a handful of his own crewmen, sleeves rolled up and leather jerkins worn as they had evidently halted in their work. And behind them on the dock stood quite a few of his councilmen, their robes of whites, greys, and blues all wafting in the sea breeze that blew against them. Always it amazed him, Círdan thought, how swiftly word traveled. Not with any gesture could it have been more obvious that all the people – his beloved citizens lining the docks and his own inner cluster of both crew and councilmen – were waiting for his impending arrival. They were not jumping up and down in cheer and waving hands, as Círdan had heard was rumored to be done in busy human ports, such as Harlond of Gondor. The Elves, in their own quiet way with enlightening smiles and gathered masses and endless murmurs of words, provided their own welcome home. And the _Fëagaer_ drifted towards the southern dock, skimming the sea like a low-flying seabird.

Círdan raised a narrow eyebrow in thought; this was going to be a rough landing. Due to the northwestern wind the _Fëagaer_ had gradually migrated towards the southern jetty, the dock now coming into sight in sharpened detail. Normally, at this point, the Shipwright would have already called his crewmen to douse the canvas and reef the mainsail against its boom, or to at least trim the sail to minimize the speed of the _Fëagaer_'s running, thereby slowing her down to a placid drift. But alas, he had no crew (he had not much confidence in the Istari's abilities to be hands on deck), he had no oarsmen to back water, and he had no control of the wind. She went fully ahead, the wind forcefully thrusting against the stretched canvas, moving her as fast as any ship in his fleet. Maybe faster. This was going to be a rough landing.

Please ease up, he thought disparagingly.

As if in answer to his silent plea, the wind actually did ease up, to Círdan's wonder. And a hundred meters off the power of the wind simmered to such minimal force that the previous momentum of her running carried the ship across the remaining distance. And Círdan angled the steering oar towards the left, gradually bringing the hull of the ship parallel to the dock, trying to get it directly behind the two-masted ship already moored. And as she neared, the crewmen stepped closer to the edge of the dock and Ëarhín did the same who, being a helmsman himself, was obviously contemplating the same situation that went through Círdan's mind on how to bring the ship to a stop.

And twenty meters off, Círdan released the tiller and let the _Fëagaer_ run her own course as he ran towards the prow and hauled up the wound mooring line. And not a second later, as soon as the peak of her keel passed the first bollard, he tossed the line to the crewmen on deck. And he ran back to the stern and did the same with the last mooring line. And immediately, as the ship drifted fast alongside the dock, the Elves hauled her in until she grated against the wickerwork fenders lining the dock's edge, and wound her mooring lines around their respective bollards. And as she was hauled in, Círdan went along the starboard and tossed the remaining five lines to Ëarhín and the other crewmen waiting. And he leaned on the gunwale, watching as they performed their tasks. None spoke to him, but he could hear the eager murmurings of the crowds nearby.

"Lord Círdan, if you could direct us to some form of a guesthouse, we would greatly appreciate it."

The quietly spoken words from behind startled the Mariner considerably, and from jumping around he barely refrained. But he turned, only to be surprised to see Radagast before him, for he had heard no sound of approaching footsteps. But Radagast met neither his gaze nor those of any other, and instead kept his eyes lowered at the deck.

"Of course, m-…Radagast," he spoke, at the last moment remembering to do as requested and call them by name, all the while fervently trying to ignore the warning bells in the back of his mind that practically screamed that something disturbing was afoot. "Is there something amiss?"

Radagast minutely shook his head, his eyes remaining downcast, and Círdan felt that worm of misgiving grow. "It is not so, Master Mariner," he spoke quietly. "It is that we simply desire not to garner attention as to our purpose and have the need to acquire rest, for we all are weary from our travels."

Círdan nodded in consent and inquired no further, though on the Istar he kept a curious eye as he wandered back to wait alongside his companions standing at the port. Instead, he went and unlatched the entry port, stepping onto the quay with a contented sigh, absently aware of how his crew and counselors maintained a respectful distance until he signaled otherwise.

"Your orders, my lord?" one of crew called.

He gestured behind him. "Dress her down," Círdan said, his tone casual and non-expectant. His crew knew already what to do. "Douse all canvas and reef. Secure the tiller, cast loose the sheets, and lower and stow away the yardarm. And bring about the oars beneath deck to the centerline."

Before all the words passed his lips, already his crew was in action, some going to take hold of the sheets and rigging and some heading for the hatch to go beneath deck. And while the carried out their duties, the three Istari, Curunír once more at the head followed by Mithrandir and Radagast, stepped onto the quay and immediately went to stand at the end of the dock, remaining as silent and elusive as could be. And at the sight of them, Círdan turned and called towards one of the councilmen waiting more inward on the wharf.

"Galdor!" he called. "Please, come near, for I have need of your aid. Ëarhín," he added as the grey clad Elf stepped forward. Ëarhín did the same, unable to take the expectant smile off his face. Enjoyment was alight in his eyes at seeing his lord once more, but Círdan had not the mind to register it. "My friend, please, dismiss the crowd."

Ëarhín raised a questioning eyebrow, but spoke nothing, instead nodding with that grin still plastered on his face. He wanted to speak; that Círdan could tell, but more important matters were at hand and Ëarhín, knowing his overlord's dislike of informality before the masses, remained as silent as the councilmen. But his first mate turned on his heel and walked towards the specters gathered upward on the dock.

"What is left to garner your fascination?" he yelled out to them. "She has returned in one piece and your lord is safe. Now, do you not all have toil to be done or lives to go about living?" Rather quickly, the assembled mass remembered their manners and dissolved swiftly as they dispersed. And after receiving a promising nod from Círdan that words would be exchanged, the councilmen did the same.

Galdor glanced in amusement at the captain behind him as he came to stand before Círdan and gave a slight bow, returning to full height with a smile. "My lord, welcome home," he greeted calmly, but the relief was evident in his eyes. "Please, my lord, do not do so again," he added in exasperation. "Many had started to lose composure at your sudden disappearance. And many, I say, many panicked at your decision to uptake an action that not even juvenile seamen would commit to."

Círdan raised a cynical eyebrow jestingly; Galdor was one of the few comfortable and familiar enough with him to know how and when to jest with him. "Do you question my judgment of in which storms to sail?"

Galdor cast his grey eyes to the sky, as if in thought. "Nay, just your nerve to do so."

"You are not the only one," Círdan murmured, for he too had questioned both his nerve and sanity for sailing out into that wreckage of a storm four months ago. He gestured behind him to the Istari crowded by the last bollard. "Will you escort these three to the guesthouse for me? For they are weary and are in need of rest, and have not the energy to toil in conversation." Never would he normally request such a simplistic task of a High-elf such as Galdor, for he was a lord in his own right, being the former chief of the House of the Tree of Gondolin. And Círdan respected that, having never sought to undermine the honor the Noldo had earned.

But Galdor nodded, glancing at the three strangers curiously. "Of course, my lord. If I may ask, who are they? Did you sail up near Forlindon?"

Círdan gave a noncommittal shrug. "I found them standing upon the shore of the Sundering Sea." In that it was not an exact lie he consoled himself, for he specified simply not which shore they had stood upon. And then Círdan took a step forward to address the Istari ere further Galdor could inquire about them. "Welcome to Mithlond, Masters. With me is Lord Galdor, who will escort you to the guesthouse where you may acquire rest. You are welcome to Mithlond, and to anywhere you may venture."

The Istari said not a word and only gave a slight bow of gratitude in the direction of Círdan, and stepped forward to follow Galdor in silence. And Círdan wondered at this, for though appreciative that Galdor inquired nothing of them as he led them away, the Mariner was left with the impression that the Istari were prudently avoiding him. Not ignoring him, only avoiding him, and he could fathom not of any reason why.

But Galdor led them away and Círdan took a moment to appreciate just how _old_ the Istari were managing to appear; hobbled and shuffled they did, their use of their staffs to support their weight evident, and their listless postures radiated a weariness beyond their years. And perhaps the fatigue was real, Círdan surmised, for they were now clothed in bodies real and not feigned, and aided and burdened now with both the strengths and weaknesses that came with them.

And Círdan stood alongside the last bollard in silence, glancing occasionally to Ëarhín who had mirrored his posture a respectful distance away, and both watched and waited for the crew to finish their work. And as they jostled the halyard to lower the yardarm, Círdan wondered at Ëarhín's silence, not even denying that it caused him a little worry. Yes, that smile of both relief and elation upturned the corners of his mouth still, but Círdan had half-expected him to speak to him by this time, or to voice some sarcastic comment in his relief at Círdan's return from being absent for four months. But nothing did Ëarhín speak, and his lord's gaze he did avoid, all the while seeming to withhold a large, knowing grin. Far too obviously, in fact. To the Shipwright it seemed that his first mate was doing such a swell job of hiding that grin precisely so that Círdan realized that he _was_ hiding it.

But not a few minutes later the crewmen finished their tasks and, one by one, left the _Fëagaer_, each giving a slight bow to their lord ere the went on their way. None spoke, for their lord required nothing, and Ëarhín meaningfully turned his head to watch his fellow seamen leave up the dock. And once out of hearing range – which was not far, for amidst the mooring lines of the docked ships creaking and the breaking waves against the wharf and open bay, voices were carried little distance on the wind – Ëarhín spun on his heel and ran to Círdan. And ere the Shipwright could react, Ëarhín had him enwrapped in a crushing bear-hug.

And Círdan could help not but to chuckle. "I had wondered when you would break your silence."

"Never again do this to me, my lord," Ëarhín murmured in evident relief. "Be it far easier and swifter to add an Age on my life." From the embrace he stepped back and sent a mocking glare up to Círdan's amused gaze. "And be it far easier to behead me than deal with both frantic councilman and mariner."

A ghost of a smile touched Círdan's face. "Prone you are to exaggeration, my friend. And this recounting I deem is no exception to the embellishment."

Slowly Ëarhín shook his head, as though overcome, but the smile was still there. "No word is embellished, my lord," he assured. "Your disappearance did cause a considerable amount of havoc and chaos."

"I promised you I would return," Círdan reminded. "And I have."

"Yes," Ëarhín spoke, glancing behind him up the dock and he gestured in the same direction. "Who were those Men with you that came ashore? Do they come from Forlindon?"

Again, he gave a noncommittal shrug. "I found them on the coast of the Sundering Sea," he said, opting to relay the vague elucidation to any who asked in the future. "They were far from civilization, for I could see none near, and at my inquiry they requested that I bear them back to such a place." He, too, glanced into their direction. "As you could see, they are very weary."

Ëarhín nodded. "Aye; it is strange indeed how the bodies of Men age and die. I am glad for them that they may acquire rest in their ending years, free of danger." He looked at Círdan curiously. "But why were they so far from a human settlement that they asked to be borne across the Gulf? Are they ill in the mind?"

Círdan shook his head. "No, they only prefer to keep their silence – even to me."

Ëarhín nodded and pressed him no further, for the answer was logical in his mind. He instead released a deep breath and smiled openly. "So tell me, of what need so valiant was there for you to uptake that suicidal voyage? Or did the Vala Ulmo simply desire to test the _Fëagaer_ against the roughest waters?" he added jestingly.

Círdan sighed and glanced at the seagulls flying overhead. "It is a strange tale to be told. And I apologize for my long absence," he added, "for I speak honestly when I say that I expected not to be gone for four months."

Silence. Ëarhín stared at him with confusion unhidden. And then he smiled and gave a nervous laugh. "Very funny, my lord. I have not heard you jest in a long time. Now come, let us get you settled back in."

Ëarhín turned to walk away, but Círdan grabbed hold his forearm and turned him back, his brow furrowed as he stared piercingly at his long-time friend. "What jest did I speak, Ëarhín? All I spoke was my being gone for four months."

Ëarhín laughed again and nodded. "I know. And as I said, it was funny. Now come, my lord," he continued, gesturing for him to follow, "let us get you home."

Once more, Círdan reached out and stopped him from walking away. And long moments of silence passed as Círdan peered deeply into Ëarhín's eyes. The grey orbs were without guile or any evidence of leg pulling. And though relaxed with his usual merry disposition, Ëarhín looked only vaguely worried at his lord's odd behavior. But he met the gaze evenly and wondered at his lord's look of alarm.

"What is it, Círdan?" he asked, willing to say anything to break the uncomfortable silence.

Suddenly, and understanding light dawned in the old Mariner's eyes. And in a low voice, he spoke gravely, "Ëarhín, how long was I absent?"

Ëarhín shrugged, failing to find the significance of it. "Just over a day, why?"

Círdan stared at him in silence, his blatant confusion now being overcome by a growing sense of worry and his eyes visibly darkened. "A _day_, Ëarhín?" he asked incredulously. "I was gone for over four months. How could you equate that to a day?"

Ëarhín spoke nothing and peered instead closely at Círdan, his own eyes narrowed. Now bothering not to hide his own worry, he reached out and rested his fingers against his lord's forehead. "Are you well, my lord? You are not ill, are you?"

Barely refraining from smacking the hand away, he took it in fraying tolerance and lowered it, and then spoke with as much patience as he could muster. "I am _not_ ill, Ëarhín. Are you attempting to pull some jest on me? If so, it is far from funny."

Ëarhín retraced a step back, wary, and in his eyes clouded with doubt Círdan could see anything but evidence of mischief. And Ëarhín bothered not to hide his worry as he openly frowned. "My friend, I am being serious. I can help not but to question your health," he assured, feeling his alarm grow as he saw Círdan's glare intensify with confusion and even the smallest hints of fear.

"You think me mad?" Though spoken calmly, the words came out scarcely past a whisper.

"I would not be so callous," he retorted, though not impolitely. And prompted by nothing, something sparked in his memory. "Oh, and ere I become forgetful to report it, in the storm yesterday four of the fleet were damaged, though not irreparably, for they should be able to break harbor once more in a fortnight or so."

"Storm?" Círdan stared at him, his face composed into a careful mask of indifference.

But Ëarhín saw through the mask, and his worry grew. "Yes, my lord," he said carefully, inadvertently speaking as if to a slow-witted person. "That storm yesterday you so adamantly insisted on voyaging without any to stand alongside you? The one that I implying argued would kill you after dismasting your ship? Do you not remember?"

"Of course I remember," Círdan insisted, his grasp on his shredding patience slipping. "And almost it did, for when the mast splintered and –"

And Círdan fell silent, for when he gestured towards the subject of his words, his words caught in his throat and he stared in unblinking incredulity. And absently, his mind only focused upon what lay before him, his feet carried him back across the quay.

And in unconcealed bafflement did Ëarhín watch, his mind a whirlwind of growing worry at the strange behavior of his lord. For without any words Círdan had walked back through the entry port, stepping aboard his ship, moving in silence like a wraith. But Ëarhín shook his head. What was his lord doing? For Círdan stood now before the mast, his awe-struck gaze cast upon it as though it were a Silmaril in disguise. Ëarhín finally moved and followed him onto the deck, studying his lord in confusion.

What was so fascinating about the mast? Unto Ëarhín's eyes, it looked fairly normal. And absently, the captain went through a mental checklist: aye, vertical to the hull it stood; aye, each splinter was in perfect place; aye, the dark wood was beautifully enhanced all round by the sheen of oil, making the mast look like a long needle smooth and straight of dark hue. All in all, good as could be. Yet to Ëarhín's bewilderment, tears had lined Círdan's eyes. And Ëarhín saw the nigh on imperceptible tremble of his fingers as the Shipwright ran the digits across the timber, their touch soft and gentle, almost hesitant. He looked torn between joy and shock, and Ëarhín sorely resisted the temptation to scratch his head.

"My lord?" He spoke warily once more, coming to stand alongside his lord. And he weighed each word carefully ere he spoke them, fully uncertain as to how Círdan should react in his strange behavior. "My lord, what is it?"

"The mast," Círdan whispered, looking up and down the timber, still in amazement.

Ëarhín forced a smile. "What about the mast? Is something wrong with it?"

"No."

The smile disappeared. "My lord, please, you are scaring me," he spoke. "Of what fascination does the mast hold for you?"

"It is healed," he said contentedly. In his sight Círdan caught of glimpse of Ëarhín's confusion, even fear, and elaborated. "While amidst that storm you declared me insane to traverse, it had been as we had foretold; the combating forces had proven too much, and she splintered in height of three meters. Any further, I deem, it would have cleaved in two." He gave a small sigh. "Alas, so irreparable was it that I had fully accepted the fact that I would have to replace her."

Clarity muddled, Ëarhín looked from Círdan, to the mast, and back again, frowning. "In that darkness you saw her splinter?" he asked, genuinely surprised.

Círdan shook his head. "No," he replied, looking still at the mast with content. "I heard it. Even amidst the thunder and swells, you would have had to have been deaf to not have heard it."

Ëarhín gave a short laugh. "My lord, I saw everything. If she had truly splintered at the mast, there is no way by any force on Arda you would have been able to sail the crest."

"Wrong again you are, my friend," he retorted in jest with the smallest hint of a smile. "The Vala Ulmo took command and carried her over the wave."

"Ulmo," Ëarhín mouthed, feeling more out of the loop than ever. The helmsman shook his head; this was going to be a long day. And then Ëarhín let loose a sigh and gave a compensating gesture. "My lord, I deny not my confusion, and I sense there is much I know not, one being what the Vala Ulmo ever had to do with this voyage." He gestured towards the opposite shore. "May I suggest we get you home and comfortable? You must be as weary as the Men. And should you decide to speak, I will listen, for I deem we have much to discuss."

Círdan peered deeply into Ëarhín's eyes, searching the grey orbs for several seconds, and the younger Elf knew that his lord had seen his doubt and even skepticism. But Ëarhín was confused and did not apologize. Though he did apologize through his gaze for the fact that he would not apologize for his doubt.

"Yes," Círdan spoke gravely. "It seems we do."

O = O = O

"To the Enchanted Isles?"

"Yes."

"I see."

An eyebrow raised slightly, the only evidence of Círdan's slowly growing frustration. "You do not believe me?"

Both Círdan and Ëarhín sat on the private balcony of the Shipwright's home, facing the warm sunset and deep blue of the open sea. After a brief consultation with his councilmen and an inspection on the ships that had been impaired, they had ascended the foliaged esplanade in silence, each step bringing about only more exhaustion on Círdan's already fatigued body. And while Círdan had left to change from his rumpled apparel Ëarhín had went to await him on the private balcony with two servings of wine. And Círdan had joined him, dressed for slumber and in a light robe, his silver hair braided in a loose plait. And in companionable silence both had partaken of their wine as they took the precious few moments to admire the seagulls skimming low over the bay and the sunset that illuminated in golden light their chiseled features, one youthful and one elderly.

Ëarhín had initially offered to speak with him come the morn, for in the eyes of the captain Círdan had appeared laden with exhaustion and his eyes heavy with weariness. But Círdan had bluntly refused and began to speak ere Ëarhín could express his offer further. And Círdan spoke of all he had been enabled to, which, he soon came to realize, was not much at all.

And now Ëarhín looked at him, polite disbelief in his eyes. "I spoke not those words."

"You may as well have."

Ëarhín fell silent as he stared at his depleted wine glass, running his finger around the rim, hesitant with his words. "I want to believe you. Truly, I do. But unto my ears it makes little sense." His lord raised an inquiring eyebrow and he elaborated. "Hear me; to dismiss what you say is the last thing I desire. In your company my whole life has been spent, which has led me to witness things conceivable only through the imagination. In time past, you have told me things beyond inexplicable and unnatural, and without hesitation I believed you. And I desire to do so again."

He leaned forward, peering into Círdan's calm gaze. "If you had told me that you had been borne across the wind on the back of Thorondor, I would believe you, without thought. If you had told me that the Úlairi had somehow found the power to break free from the hold of Sauron and turned against him, I would believe you. If you had told me that while amidst this voyage you had witnessed Númenor raised back from the depths, I would believe you. The only thing to stop impossibility from being possible is people believing it to be improbable; you taught me that. And what you tell me now offers little clarity.

"Yes, no doubt rests in my mind that Ulmo summoned you out to the Great Sea, granting you no knowledge as to where or why. But that you sailed all the way to Aman and back…so many factors of what you inform me go against it."

Círdan rested his head against the wood of the chair, gazing out absently at the dying Sun. "I have not told you everything," he spoke softly. "Speak your doubts and allow me the chance to quell them."

Ëarhín sat back as well, calmed by his lord's passive manner, for though his lord was not one to become quick to anger, he was relieved that he had not yet lost all patience with making sense of this tale. "Very well…for one, you say that the only place where the _Fëagaer_ ran aground was the Enchanted Isles. Through that, do you imply that it was where those three Men came aboard? That they came from a land where the race of Men is forbidden to step upon? Or have the higher beings of power and authority suddenly withdrawn that forbiddance?"

There was a long silence, and in Círdan's stoic expression no thought could be read. But the smallest hints of frustration could be seen in his eyes, for the truth to make Ëarhín's confusion clear could not be spoken while shorn of breaking his own oath of silence; therefore, silence, it seemed, was all he could keep.

"No," he answered quietly. "As in the dawn of days, the rite of passage to Aman is forbidden from Men."

"Then how could this be?"

"I cannot answer."

"Cannot or will not?" he asked with a smile to take the challenge out of his words. But his lord did not answer and Ëarhín pushed aside his uncertainty as to why he kept his silence. "And then there is something that I fail to comprehend with the _Fëagaer_."

That caught Círdan's attention, and he turned his head just enough to peer at his first mate. "Yes?"

He gave a slight smile and shook his head. "That Ulmo bore her across the Sea has left me in awe, only increasing my wonder of the Lord of Waters." He gestured uncertainly. "But why did Ulmo not heal her until after the journey was finished? Why wait so long when the journey may have been aided by her being fully functional?"

"Searching for answers pertaining to that beyond the depth of our understanding is as walking through a forest at night," he said. "It is easy to lose your way, and without a hand to guide you, you will likely never find it." He gave a slight smile as Ëarhín looked upon him in mock exasperation, though the skirl could not keep the adoration from his eyes and smile from his lips. "Attempt not to understand that which is not meant to be understood, my friend. The Vala Ulmo is as vast as his Waters; his reasons go beyond the furthest horizons, and his wisdom behind them reaches beyond the furthest depths. And of both ends, we can see neither. And still, he apparently deems it wise to keep my eyes shut as to the full reason why he sent me on this voyage. Besides," he added, sensing Ëarhín's curious gaze, "the Vala Ulmo did not heal the mast."

Ëarhín cocked his head. "But afore we departed the quay, you told me that she had been splintered ere being healed."

"And it is as I spoke."

Ëarhín looked from Círdan, to the bay, and back again, growing in confusion. "But you now spoke she was healed not by Ulmo."

"And that is true."

Ëarhín gestured helplessly with his hands, this time with real exasperation. "Then by who was she healed?"

"I cannot say."

Ëarhín sat back, twisting his jaw as he briefly looked at the carafe of wine in longing, contemplating if he should have another drink. And then he pushed the ungraceful thought aside. "See you now what I mean, my lord? What you apparently _cannot_ speak of is what is making this all more confusing. Furthermore, on the simplest note, I know you took nothing with you, not even a brush. And if truly you were gone for four months at sea, your hair would look as though it had been dragged through five hedges backwards. And yet every strand is in place."

"I did have a brush," Círdan retorted with the ghost of a smile.

Ëarhín frowned at the ambiguous words, but when it was obvious that no elaboration was forthcoming, he sighed. "Very well, it is as you say. But brush or no brush, if truly you had traversed the greatest body of water, you would have returned with the white crust of salt rimming your hair. And yet I saw none upon your return."

"What you speak is true," Círdan answered, again in that passively soft tone. "But I spent too little time above deck for the bombardment of salt to crust my hair. I stood only fore and aft for no more than a day."

Again, Ëarhín frowned. "If gone for four months, how was the rest of your time spent? Beneath deck?"

"I slept."

The frown was deepened with confusion. "What do you mean _you slept_?"

"It is as it sounds," Círdan said simply. "I slept."

"How is that possible?" Ëarhín nearly begged, concern and wonder warring within. "_Never_ has it been said of an Elf of good health to sleep for days on end, let alone _months_. How did you do that?"

"I did not," he said. "Each time I had lain down for slumber, the Vala Lórien had come to aid my rest, sending me into reverie so deep that to wake passed beyond my control. As I had hitherto spoken, when I first awoke I had passed beyond the world of familiarity, for I recognized nothing."

"The Vala Lórien? You had failed to mention him." Ëarhín's mind flew anew with this further piece of knowledge and he leaned forward yet again. "When you speak of how you slept without interval for so long now makes sense, my lord, but have you considered the fact that he is called the Vala of Dreams for a reason? What if all you describe was only a dr–"

Quickly, he snapped his jaw shut, but already the words had been spoken. And Ëarhín had already known it was a mistake ere all the words had left his mouth, for through his ill-chosen words, he was aware that he had just gravely insulted his lord. And though no anger was enthused in Círdan at the unintentional affront, Ëarhín saw a glimpse of deep hurt flash in his eyes. And he bowed his head in obvious regret.

"My lord, forgive me," he spoke quietly. "I spoke without thought."

And that he spoke without thought was true, for Ëarhín, more than any other, was aware that if any Elf could differentiate between dreams and reality, it was Círdan and no other. Constantly, every day, Ëarhín was aware that his lord was plagued with the Sight, both through dreams amidst his reverie and visions amidst his being awake. And the Sight came upon him so regularly that, in a rare time when he had jested with Ëarhín, Círdan had spoken that he knew not if what he saw throughout every day was of the Sight or of his _own_ eyesight. That he had just implied that Círdan was ignorant that all that had happened might have only been a dream was tantamount to declaring to a swordmaster that he knew not how to hold a sword. Or declaring to a Wood-elf that he knew not how to climb a tree.

Ëarhín felt the light touch of long fingers over his hand and he looked up into Círdan's passive gaze. "I took no offense, Ëarhín," he spoke calmly. "I know that by confusion you are plagued and well aware am I that my answer of silence to many a question of yours helps not. I pretend not to know everything and alas, I remain ignorant on many things about this voyage also." The grip tightened, almost beseechingly. "But _know_ that I speak the truth when I say that the ship was beached at the Enchanted Isles. Believe that, if nothing else."

Ëarhín was shaken by the nigh on imploring light in Círdan's eyes, for such insecurity was unbecoming of his lord in the greatest of ways. And it was then that the Sea-elf came to realize that Círdan was fearful, fearful that his mind was going astray with what he did and did not know; he needed the answers even more than Ëarhín did. But Ëarhín could only shake his head with an apologetic sigh.

"My lord," he began, "it was by the decree of Eru that you could not have sailed to Aman in less than a day, for the West is to be beyond the reaches of Men. But were that factor to be non-existent and you told me that all this happened in one day, I would believe you. But that you insist on having been gone for four months…it is scaring me."

Círdan leant back once more, his inscrutable gaze again cast upon the bay. "Perhaps it did happen in one day. I am not blind to what lays before me amidst my Havens, Ëarhín. The season has lingered and far off does Summer remain, for still I can feel the chill of the winter gales upon my skin. But the decree of Eru you speak of remains firm, and it is because of that decree that we both know I could not have sailed to the Enchanted Isles ere a day had passed."

"And that is why I insist that the Men must have come from Forlindon, for Men are decreed to never set foot upon the Undying Lands and Forlindon is a plausible distance to have traveled in a day," Ëarhín averred. "I despise arguing with you, my lord," he added with a chuckle, "for I always come out looking as the fool. But that you declare that you went to Aman and welcomed aboard _Men_, and all in one day…it just _makes no sense_."

And Círdan closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, and Ëarhín was uncertain as to whether it was an attempt to stave of weariness or summon more patience. He desired to know Círdan's thoughts at that moment, but little did he know that Círdan was beyond frustrated, frustrated at the fact that a large portion of this melee would be solved if he merely mentioned that they were _not_ Men.

But he couldn't.

"I honestly am uncertain as to what to tell you," he spoke with his eyes still closed, "but all I can say is that the three in question did _not_ come from Forlindon."

"Why did you not ask them?" Ëarhín asked. "And speaking of the three, despite how odd they are, if you had truly spent so much time with them, why did you seem as a stranger to them after you came into port?"

"Oh worry not, my friend," Círdan spoke darkly. "I will be speaking with them on the morrow about that."

"Círdan," Ëarhín tried once more in tones mild and respective, "I know you are not lying. And I apologize if my words seemed to insinuate that I questioned your integrity. Yet you even have admitted ignorance, that not all of this journey is clear unto your eyes." He looked out to the bay and watched the seagulls fly, taking comfort in their distant squawking. "Perhaps it is as you said, my lord, and this passes beyond the depth of our understanding. Or mine, at least," he amended. "There are many things within your sight that I cannot even fathom to contemplate." A smile creased his face as he turned once more to Círdan. "Do you remember when we first met?"

Círdan's eyes softened at the memory. "It is hard to forget," he said quietly. "You scared the life out of me."

Ëarhín chuckled. "No fault had lain with me, for I had not even been ten years of age. I remember my youth upon the Falas and during those tender years you had always been that figure to be admired to my eyes, beyond the reach of the simplest person." The smile grew. "You were my idol, for I remember no other whose skill I fervently desired to have." He shook his head, the focus of his gaze far away as he lost himself in memory. "When ventured forth I had into the water, I had thought to have judged the depths of the shallows correctly. I _knew_ I had, for I could see the floor with my own eyes. Never would I have expected for an air pocket – quicksand – to be below surface only neck deep in water.

"But there you were," he continued contentedly. "Within seconds after submerged underwater with my feet caught in the sand, there you were hauling me out. And I remember wondering how you could have possibly known that air pocket was there, how you could have known that it would give out under my weight when I barely weighed a thing." He looked back out to the bay. "You understand and know the workings of the Waters far better than I, Círdan. And you can sense far deeper and clearer the world around you than any Elf I believe possibly could. I know that as we simply hear the breaking swells of the sea, you can hear the Music clearly in your ear, whereas I would have to strain my hearing to hear but the echo of Ilúvatar's Song." He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Can you hear it now?"

Círdan returned the expression, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "And what question is that?" he distantly asked. "It is the air I breathe."

"Exactly," Ëarhín smiled. "Your soul and mind are a part of this World and the powers behind it. And to all eyes it is known that your spirit is entwined with the Waters of Ulmo." He let go a deep breath. "And that is why I would fully believe that this 'voyage' is beyond my understanding, that only you could comprehend it; with no qualm I would accept that. Say it, my lord," he insisted with a flourish of his hand. "Say it; it is beyond my understanding, so do act wisely, stay silent and argue with you no further."

Círdan's face creased as the smallest tinges of a smile broke through to the surface as he looked upon his long-time friend in mock tolerance. "Never would I degrade you so," he said, "for every word of insight on your part is as a thousand words to me." He then sighed, the smile disappearing as he once again closed his eyes. "Yet it seems that this voyage has gone beyond even my comprehension, for many things remain in the dark."

Ëarhín reached over and grasped his shoulder. "And all will come to light, my lord," he promised. "As you would say to me, just give it a while, for all things will come in their own time, not ours."

A silent moment passed and, without opening his eyes, Círdan spoke, "You can be unbearably optimistic sometimes."

Ëarhín smiled. "And why do you think I follow you as a dog? For with that accursed Sight you tend to be too fatalistic."

He gave a slight shrug. "That is true, too."

"Are you sure to be well, my lord?" Ëarhín inquired after a second's hesitation. "Despite being only gone for a day, you truly do appear as if, without rest, you have journeyed for four months."

"I am so tired," he uttered, the words so quiet they may have been to himself.

Ëarhín felt a dark premonition overcome him as he heard the words, for through knowing his lord so well he deemed that the claim of tiredness came not from bodily fatigue. But he kept the smile upon his face and stood from his chair. "Then sleep, you old fool," he jestingly berated. "How many more a time must you be told to acquire rest when you need it?"

Círdan open his eyes and gazed sagely up at Ëarhín, a smile in his eyes. "That answer I deem will forever remain beyond my sight." He grasped the hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "You are a good friend, Ëarhín. Thank you for listening to me, if not exactly believing me."

"You have always had my ear," he said, "and mayhap this…situation…will become clearer in the morn, after all have rested. Good night, my lord, and sleep well." He gave a slight bow and left Círdan on the balcony, his soft footfalls scarcely audible as they receded.

But despite the fatigue he felt in body and weariness in mind, Círdan thoughts remained awry and did not settle. He pondered no further on the frustrating mystery of the voyage, for having been through all mundane avenues with Ëarhín there was nothing new to think upon. But it remained unsolved and ever so infuriating in his mind, for he knew this journey had _not_ been a dream. He knew with crystal clarity the different residue left by dream and reality, and he _knew_ that all he had experienced was real.

For there had been much he had not told Ëarhín.

But Círdan's thoughts were upon another subject entirely; the three _Men_. Ëarhín had made a very interesting point; they _had_ treated the Shipwright as though he were a stranger to them upon arriving in Mithlond. And he knew not whether to be more amused or offended by it. As he had guaranteed to Ëarhín, he would speak with them on the morrow, for he wanted some answers and only they could provide them. Oh yes, he thought darkly, he would be speaking with them.

But there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty; the Istari were real and their purpose true, for Radagast had asked of Círdan ere they had moored at the quay to be escorted to a guesthouse immediately in the attempt to not garner attention _as to their_ _purpose_. But Radagast had avoided his eyes when making the request. Why had he avoided his eyes? But already they made certain to obtain the mask of insignificance. And it had worked, for as they had been escorted by Galdor none had spoken to or questioned them, only looked upon them in curiosity. And Círdan was more concerned about them than his own sanity over the impossibilities of this trip.

He knew what was in store for the Istari when they will have started to traverse Middle-earth. That vision he had dreamt while upon the _Fëagaer_ remained clear in his mind. And he grieved at knowing all the horror, the pain, the struggles, and the weariness that awaited them. Yes, their wisdom would be welcome, their counsel sought, but once Sauron learned of their existence they would be hunted without reprieve. And limited by their own restrictions set by the Valar, it would make their mission only harder. Their bodies were masks to inconceivable strength, but their immortal souls would soon be greatly weakened by the mortality of Middle-earth. They would face many obstacles, and though Círdan believed with no doubt that they would emerge victorious, the struggle to do so would sometimes be great.

He wished to help them, but by no means could he. Through sending the Istari the Valar had proven to all that they still cared, that they watched still the transformation, the growth and destruction of Middle-earth. The Istari were to be the double-edged sword of the Valar, but like all swords they would bear the brunt of all retaliation. They would inflict all damage and wounds upon Sauron, but they would also bear the notch in the steel every time Sauron struck back with his darkness and terror. Yes, he would speak with them tomorrow and tell them all they desired to know about Middle-earth, for he knew he saw further and deeper than any other into the land, and he could offer them any knowledge of any place to increase their wariness of the Hither Shores.

And yet, Círdan knew it would be very little.

There was nothing he knew that they eventually would fail to learn, and their knowledge and understanding of Middle-earth was already so great, he deemed, that there was little he could tell them that they knew not already. But did they already know what awaited them? Were they already aware that they would go for years without rest, that their feet would carry them for miles across distant lands without reprieve? He would be unsurprised if they did, for they were neither arrogant nor ignorant. He wished there were some way he could aid them, but there was nothing of material value he could give them, for his craft and trade lay in the making of ships. Besides, the aid of substantial apparatus would only last them for so long a time, or so little a time to be accurate. And what they were fighting was not physical. It was in the realm of the otherworldly, in the place where swords could be thrown to the side in their futility. If there were anything that could possibly, truly aid them, it would have to be something capable of resisting the darkness of Sauron that continuously grew, of staving off the weariness that would soon be brought upon their shoulders, thereby making their job a little bit easier to endure.

At the inadvertent thought Círdan's eyes snapped open as his breath caught. Almost against his will, his eyes slid down to where he felt the almost imperceptible pulsing beat on his finger. And as he gazed at the seemingly bare finger, the pulse grew until he could physically feel it against his skin. And Círdan put forth his mind to that which lay dormant upon his hand as he willed the Ring to show herself.

And she did. Within the blink of an eye after the thought, Narya became visible on his middle finger, the gold band reflecting the light of the dying Sun, and the red ruby resting before his eyes deep and pure. He studied it keenly, sending his mind through her layers of power, recalling all the centuries, the millennia he had borne her and how she remained idle upon the shores for many of them. And the pulsing beat grew more prominent until he could feel it match his own heartbeat.

Suddenly, Círdan wretched his gaze away from the band set with stone, shaking his head and the Ring was sent once more to lay invisible upon his finger. And again, he closed his eyes, resting his head against the chair in exhaustion. He must really be tired, he thought absently. What had he been thinking? To have actually even had the mere thought of giving away Narya –

No, no…no. He wouldn't…He couldn't.

To be continued….

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><p><span>No AU factor<span>: I've received a couple reviews that pointed out that the content of this chapter seemed a lot like Narnia (something I had never considered), concerning the "being gone for four months when it was only a day". There's nothing wrong with thinking that, because it _does_ seem a lot like it. That's why I'm posting this. The only thing I can tell you at this moment was that I _wasn't_ pulling a Narnia. Círdan wasn't gone for four months at all, only for one real day (almost two days, but whatever). That's why everyone's confused. It's impossible to have sailed to Aman within two days because of what Eru decreed (which is why Círdan insists that it was four months, thereby making it more logical), and Ëarhín insists that he was only gone for a day because...well, he was. The whole issue will be clarified and explained in the last chapter (as will a ton of others), because there _is_ actually a loose canonical explanation of how and why Círdan would think one day turned into four months. There was no magic, no time capsuls, no anything. That's all I can say at this time. Círdan's the one who's in the wrong about being gone for four months; he just doesn't realize it yet. Sorry for the confusion!

Next chapter: And _finally_ Círdan makes a rather crucial decision. And he has a rather blunt conversation with three particular Istari, no longer caring if they are offended by his words or not.

**A/N:** Before anyone asks, everything that happened to Círdan in the past chapters was _real_. Ëarhín made some valid points about the impossibilities of Círdan's "journey", but it was definitely all real. How it could have been possible despite all the impossible factors remains the question to be answered. Besides, Ulmo could never be so cruel to his favorite Elf. :) After all, Ulmo has a pretty big surprise in store for Círdan. *sighs* Many, many more answers to be obtained…Please, make my day and click on the review button! I'm open to any and all words you have to say.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** for full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.

**A/N:** Okay, it's official; there will be 10 chapters in this story. No more, no less. In this chapter, Círdan makes said decision, we find out exactly what happens when those who know of Narya learn that Círdan wants to give it away, Círdan becomes more frustrated than ever and the Istari prove to be no help whatsoever. I would like to thank **Lia** **Whyteleafe**, **WiseQueen**, **Zammy**, and **Sadie** **Sil** for your reviews; very encouraging and very wonderful. So thank you!

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><p>"Nothing is more difficult, and therefore more precious, than to be able to decide." ~ Napoleon Bonaparte<p>

**Chapter 8**

_Suddenly, Círdan wretched his gaze away from the band set with stone, shaking his head and the Ring was sent once more to lay invisible upon his finger. And again, he closed his eyes, resting his head against the chair in exhaustion. He must really be tired, he thought absently. What had he been thinking? To have actually even had the mere thought of giving away Narya –_

_No, no…no. He wouldn't…He couldn't._

Could he?

Though his body bemoaned leaving the comfort of his chair, Círdan stood and went to the railing of the balcony. And for but a moment, with a weary sigh, Círdan closed his eyes and allowed himself to get lost within the pulsing rhythm of the sea, to go adrift among the breaking of the swells. But such entrancement did little to quell his racing thoughts and, with great reluctance, he pulled away from the temptation to drown in the waters.

He collapsed against the balustrade, alarmed by how his limbs trembled with fatigue, and sat along the smooth flooring, closing his eyes once more. He truly needed to sleep and his body was obviously ready to give way. But his thoughts were awry, and he began to wonder if his clarity and train of thought were now being muddled with exhaustion. What had he been thinking? Why had he even contemplated the thought of giving Narya away, let alone to _them_? It had been entrusted to him by Gil-galad, and he valued that trust. And at the thought of the long departed Elvenking, an old wound in the Shipwright's heart ached once more.

After entrusted by Fingon with the protection of his only son, the Shipwright had raised Ereinion with as much love and patience as he could give, and never before being neither child nor parent he was not the greatest or most natural at such a task. And as he had grown in knowledge and stature and as a person, he had earned Círdan's respect and trust like others seldom few. Never had Círdan borne Narya with any desire, a sentiment made incontestably clear unto the High King and all present when offered the band. But Gil-galad had met him with arguments valid and undeniable, ones Círdan had been unable to talk his way out of – a situation he was uncertain still with how Gil-galad had managed to do so successfully. But upon his finger still, the steady, subtle beat of Narya went on pulsating without pause. And upon every remembrance of her his mind grew dark with the frustration and everlasting reluctance surfaced to a degree greater each time. For Noldorin craft and beauty Círdan had no fascination – he was far too in love with the Sea for it to be so. Besides, he recognized that it had been the irrational desire for knowledge and perfection on the part of Celebrimbor the whole debacle had started, which had only darkened his mood upon Gil-galad's request to receive Narya. No, never had he wanted Narya, neither then nor now.

But as spoken to Mithrandir, his peace of both mind and soul mattered little to the fate of Middle-earth, and of both he would risk being rent if it meant that Middle-earth should live in light a while longer. But idle Narya was upon these shores, for Círdan never used her. Aye, amidst her layers of power Círdan had taken advantage always of being enabled to detect within his realm any source of evil, for he was no fool, but to naught it always came. So as ever, upon the grey, western shores did Narya remain ineffective and upon his finger useless.

But whether it was that Narya was idle or not was irrelevant; Círdan knew not what he had been thinking, for in no way possible could he give the Red Ring to the Istari. They were_ Maiar_. And the Three, by the hand of Celebrimbor, were crafted to be solely wielded by the Elves. As Curunír had said amid his interrogation with Círdan aboard his ship, _all bands set with stone contain power to be envied_. Upon discussing the Three nigh on a millennium ago, Elrond had made the peculiar observation to Círdan that Men would more or less be driven into madness should they wear an Elven Ring of Power for a prolonged amount of time. And being Half-elven, Círdan perceived that Elrond understood that better than he. And layers of power could be wielded only by those with the strength to resist their influence. Among all the knowledge was common that of body and spirit, Elves had the greater strength than mortals; thereby, it was logical that those of stronger resistance were able to wield the greater power shorn of falling prey to it.

But were Maiar not stronger?

The unbidden thought entered Círdan's mind. Upon Mithrandir's inquiry of him of why he refused to call the Istari by name, the Shipwright recalled his reply: _To all of higher power I am inferior and I accept that_. Within the order of the World set by Eru, Elves came under Maiar in all strengths, a fact Círdan knew personally. And that they were stronger was a part of Ilúvatar's Song. Upon that knowledge, that the Istari were capable of wielding Narya as easily as the next, no doubt lay within Círdan's mind. But differentiation loomed large in Círdan's thoughts, for Elves were not Maiar and Maiar were not Elves, and the guess lay with anyone of with what thoughts Celebrimbor crafted the Three.

And upon such skepticism, the ghost of a smile touched the face of Círdan, for he remembered the words of Mithrandir amidst their discussion of what had coaxed Sauron to turn traitor into Morgoth's service, and the gruff voice echoed in his mind. _Identical are the tempers of our souls, cloaked only in different origins. Have not Maiar eyes, hands, emotions, senses, passions? If you jest with us, do we not laugh? If you anger us, do we not become enraged? If you sadden us, do we not mourn? If you betray us, do we not hurt_? Example upon example Mithrandir had given in proof that Maia and Elf were not so different at all; proof that both were capable (and even susceptible) of loyalty, jealousy, deception, desire, forgiveness, rage, love, sympathy, fear and in between a thousand more. And it was even more so now as such, Círdan construed, for clothed in the bodies of Men the Istari were now more susceptible than ever to the fears and pains of the flesh, and to all limitations lying therein. Mayhap it was that upon the craft of the Three, Celebrimbor meant them to be wielded not by those with Elven blood, but with tantamount qualities.

With a fatigued grunt, Círdan opened his eyes and hauled himself up from the stone floor. And without thought, he entered his room and removed his light robe. Stepping before the water-filled basin set upon a small table, Círdan splashed his face a few times. And bothering not to even take up the towel to dry his face, Círdan went over to his narrow bed and collapsed atop the white sheets, water droplets running down into his hairline as he stared up at the white-washed ceiling, his tired thoughts going in circles.

Very well, let it be the presumption that he would give them Narya, Círdan thought. The question of whether she would be capable of aiding them went unchallenged in his mind, for the Elven Rings, though flawed in their very conception, possessed many layers of power for the better as to resist the growing Shadow of Sauron. For it was as Mithrandir had spoken, that _to the sway of the Shadow the Three are unconquerable; save from Sauron himself, thereby meaning that there is _something_ about the Rings that stands in resistance to the workings of Sauron_. And such was true, Círdan knew, for of all tyranny Narya would grant strength to the bearer to resist, and all domination of mind and soul that Sauron would, with little doubt, intend for them. And upon the finger of whichever Istar, Narya would erase all remnants of despair that might befall them. She would smite doubt and instill hope, and enable the senses to further and deeper see and feel than the mundane, whether said senses be mortal or immortal. And, perhaps most importantly, Círdan decided, in all others surrounding her wielder, Narya would invoke hope and courage, for it was as Curunír had spoken: _And it is for that reason it has been assigned unto us to unite the Free Peoples against their common foe, to unite all those Sauron would seek to corrupt, and of who there are many_. Never had matters of trust crossed the Shipwright's mind, for to question their allegiance to the battle to bring about Sauron's fall would be to question the Valar themselves. Certainly, the Istari did not need Narya, but that she would in some form aid them, little by little, was undeniable.

And Círdan's thoughts plundered, for to whom would he give the Ring of Fire? Only one bearer there could be and he had three candidates, all assigned and entrusted by the Valar, burdened with the same task, and limited by the same restrictions. To any one of them he could give her, for, logically, their purpose and goal were the same.

But no, for amid the _Fëagaer_ and the little time he had spent with each Istar, Círdan saw already the subtle yet extreme differences between the three. And already, the Shipwright knew he could not grant the Ring of Fire to Radagast. Truly, nothing was there that Círdan held against him, for he had become endeared of him; of all Maiar Círdan had met, Radagast had been one of the gentlest (a true foil to Ossë), and to all life he possessed such a warm and giving heart that it was positively admirable to any who witnessed it.

But the first precedence lay in their mission, and already Círdan could see that Radagast was not fully committed to it as the others were. _In other paths there lie ways to thwart the Enemy_. While what Radagast had spoken was true, and to the Free People such wisdom would be imparted by the Istari, Radagast had made it plain unto Círdan that his heart and dedication lay in those other _ways_, for he had so purely spoken; _to encourage life to flourish would be to set back the growth of Shadow. Thus, alongside the duty assigned unto us, so also would I aspire to heal the land and life therein that was darkened_. Though that Radagast would succeed with such an endeavor the Shipwright hoped to the fullest, Círdan knew the importance of duty. And though Radagast did truly desire to fight the growth of the Shadow in whichever way he might, in how to go about that his mind was divided; to strictly obey the orders of the Valar or to act in accordance with his own strength and skill. For Radagast had spoken to Círdan that _of the greatest strength, love is the foundation. As your heart lay with the Sea and your ships, so there your hands are Master, as are mine in the life of earth and beast_. And it was that Círdan sensed, even feared, that as time of the Age waned, Radagast would stray from his duty and instead follow his heart. A deep respect for the Brown Wizard had grown within Círdan, for he admired his gentleness and deep love for life like few others. But though he believed still that Radagast's presence would benefit Middle-earth's healing, in all Círdan could trust was the Valar and those that were committed to their orders fully – no doubt could be present when deciding who should be granted power of any kind.

Which left Curunír and Mithrandir, and upon whom he should choose Círdan's mind was truly divided. And if he were honest, his initial thoughts leant more towards Curunír.

That Curunír knew what he was doing was clear, and he was said by Mithrandir to be _regarded by well-nigh all, even by the Eldar, as Chief of my Order_. The average person might deduce that, as Curunír was the Head of the Istari, the leader, he should be granted the Ring of Fire. But of who should be given what, Círdan knew that leadership should never sway the decision. And it both saddened and infuriated the Shipwright that many people, of Men and Elves alike, immediately and so inanely bowed down to foreign leadership without thought upon deciding who should be given power or authority. Not that any and all leaders were unworthy of it (quite the contrary), but some intelligent thought should be put behind such decisions.

But Curunír _knew_ what he was doing and had proven it every time he had felt obligated to speak to Círdan. Even Mithrandir acknowledged him, and of his memory the Grey Wizard's words came to the forefront: _He is both knowledgeable and wise and has the greatest of both in knowing the ways and workings of Sauron_. And Mithrandir respected him and submitted to his authority willingly, and such acquiescence spoke volumes unto Círdan's mind. Furthermore, Mithrandir had spoken that _though in bearing he is strong and confident, and though he showcases his excessive knowledge wisely, great burden does he carry on his shoulders_. Curunír did carry that extra burden and mayhap he would benefit the most if given the aid of Narya.

But was Mithrandir's burden not just as great?

Mayhap it was all the time Círdan had spent in his company, for Mithrandir came forth as so vastly different. The Maia of Manwë was so shockingly humble, for of all time amidst the _Fëagaer_ when he could have exalted his superior knowledge, wisdom, power – whatever it may have been – he never did. And of recognizing and admitting his weaknesses he held no shame, for he knew imperfection was not a personal problem, but a part of existing. In the course of their discussion on the Valar choosing the emissaries, Mithrandir had spoken that he had told the King of Arda that he was too weak for such a task and that he feared Sauron. And how had Manwë responded? That was all the more reason why he should go. And though commanded by Manwë to go as an emissary, he seemed to be doing so less because he was ordered to and more because he wanted to. Círdan recalled that, while trying to encourage the Wizard to go as an ardent emissary, Eönwë had revealed his "trump", that _you _will_ do this, for you love them too much, you fool_.

As Radagast had hitherto clarified, love was the foundation of the greatest strength. And Círdan realized that, constantly, Mithrandir had spoken of his love. And he remembered. _If my love for the Elves can be called a weakness, then it is one weakness I am grateful for. Doubt me not, Círdan, when I say that love recognizes no barriers. If there is anything that would strengthen my resolve, to absolve my hesitancy, and fortify my yearning to defeat the Shadow, it is my love for the Free People, to see them released from bondage_. And he had further spoken that he held within his mind no doubt that, upon his traversing the Hither Lands, he would come to love Men and the other Free Peoples just as greatly as he did the Elves. Upon Círdan's inquiry – or accusation, more correctly – that Mithrandir would follow the same path Sauron did, Mithrandir had spoken of his respect for the Valar and his love for them, of his anticipation of returning home to them once all was done. Mithrandir had expressed his love for the Valar and Free Peoples as clearly as Radagast had spoken of his love for earth and beast, and in excessive knowledge Curunír's love and pride had needed not to be spoken of.

But Mithrandir…he had proven to be warm, and eager was his spirit. And his concrete dedication to aid the Free Peoples and release them from bondage would, Círdan could foresee, make him a great enemy of Sauron. And he appeared to have the tendency to fell all barriers of those he spoke to, opposing the fire that devoured and wasted with instead the fire that kindled. From what Círdan knew, Mithrandir succored in wanhope and distress; but his joy, his swift wrath were veiled in garments grey as ash, and Círdan perceived that only those who knew him well would be able glimpse the flame that was within.

Both Curunír and Mithrandir were wise, yet in Mithrandir Círdan perceived that such wisdom was greater. Curunír had both knowledge and wisdom and had the greatest of both in knowing the ways and workings of Sauron, as par the words of Mithrandir. And mayhap said insight was essentially born from his excessive knowledge. Though in that he may be the greatest, in Mithrandir Círdan sensed a wisdom deeper and far different. It was the wisdom obtained from a personal level, obtained from knowing the ways and workings of not only Sauron, but of all the Free People, derived from dedication to have such knowledge learnt. And Mithrandir had something Curunír did not, for Manwë had sent specifically him for an unspoken reason.

And though ordered to forgo might and power, Mithrandir not only adhered to the command, but understood why it had to be so; the grey-clad Istar saw the benefits of not using power, for he had told Círdan that _there are ways more subtle and effective to conquest the Shadow. Not all can be done – or should be done – through power alone_. And there was where the concern of Círdan lay. Curunír had put Círdan through the fire in his inquiry of the power of the Three, or at least what powers the Three were rumored to possess. Mithrandir later had clarified that Sauron wanted the Elven Rings, that _something about them drove him to desire them_. And it was unto Círdan's mind that Curunír was trying to deduce what exact "power" of the Three it was that stood in resistance to Sauron.

_It is my belief that Curunír is trying to find a chink in Sauron's armor; a weakness, however small, that we could use to our advantage_; that was what Mithrandir had concluded about his Chief. And Círdan could help not but to wonder if Curunír believed still that power must be used to defeat Sauron. Círdan knew not, and such simple ignorance was vexing. For in that he was torn, as the differences between the Wizards White and Grey were blatant upon inspection.

Without any consideration, Círdan would give Narya to Mithrandir, for with he laid his greater familiarity. Mayhap he just knew not enough of Curunír, but each and every time when Círdan had spoken with the Head of the Order, it had been nothing but formal. And Curunír had never gone out of his way to speak with Círdan unless it concerned something of importance, unlike Mithrandir, who had not let Círdan remain alone, even in thought and memory. But Círdan had identified also a touch of pride in Curunír, and that triggered the Shipwright to hesitate further. Curunír was prideful, and Círdan knew that the greatest asset in wisdom, of any kind, was humility, something both Gil-galad and Elrond had proven upon their wielding of Vilya, mightiest of the Three. But Curunír was a bit prideful under keen eyes, for when discussing the Rings of Power, Curunír had admitted his lack of knowledge, to which Mithrandir had playfully mocked him of. And Círdan's flying thoughts came to an immediate halt, for he suddenly recalled how Curunír had replied to the jest.

_Go play with your fire_.

The vision…within it he had seen a flame, a flame that, amid the battles raging of stench and death, had remained ever strong, untainted, untouched, and unconquered. By no darkness, it had appeared, could it have been quenched. As countless times before, Círdan had known what the vision had foretold, and had presumed that the flame was the Istari, the light of the Valar that would contest the darkness of the Shadow. Had he been wrong? Was the flame not all of the Istari, but only one of them? Why had Curunír said _fire_, of all things, otherwise? But as Círdan continued to think upon it, the more he began to believe that the flame was Mithrandir and he alone, for it had been amongst all the Free Peoples, and only he was the one most likely to do just that. And an unbidden – rather random – thought came unto his mind; Narya was called the Ring of Fire, and though Círdan was an Elf that trusted more in the Sight placed upon him and concrete fact otherwise, he was not beyond believing that fate intervened when it was destined to in the unraveling of the World. In all his time spent with Ulmo and Ossë, it was impossible that he could not have gone living on without believing that.

It would have to be Mithrandir, if but for the smallest reason that he knew not enough about Curunír yet. But he was not so foolish as to do so blindly; he would speak with Mithrandir first, and if one misgiving further entered his mind amidst the conversation, all consideration of giving Narya to him, or any other, would come to a stop, for by no means would he risk Narya being misused or revealed.

With another weary sigh, Círdan abandoned the comfort of his bed and removed his attire, draping it over the edge of the headboard. He let loose his hair and robed himself in his formal raiment of white and grey, absently wiping the remaining dampness on his face away. Though doubts remained, his mind was made, and it was time to act upon it ere any more misgivings came to bend his train of thought. And slipping on his footwear, he headed for the main door of his house.

"Valar forgive me should my thoughts have led me astray," he murmured quietly.

O = O = O

In his study Galdor sat at his desk before the spacious window wide open, of which provided him the view cherished by every Sea-elf. And with the sight of the bay and the docked fleet to the far right came also the invigorating scent of the ocean. And with the light of the dying Sun and the few lit candles upon his desk, his eyes skimmed across the small written words along the parchment.

It was nothing but the work of lesser importance he hoped to finish ere sitting upon his balcony with a glass of wine and retiring for the evening. And upon a moment when he glanced up from his work at hearing the distant squawking of seagulls skimming low over the bay, he spotted a lone figure along the distant shore. And though it could have been any Elf clad in grey and white, Galdor knew of no other Elf in the Havens that stood at such a height or whose silver hair shone so white under the light of the scarcely visible Sun. And a small, amused smile touched his lips, for Galdor presumed that, despite his undeniable fatigue, Círdan had elected his mind and being to once more go adrift among the sound of the waves and to get lost within the Music of the Sea, as was his wont. All knew that such strange behavior was normal for their lord and let him go about it without attempting to even understand the fascination behind it.

But he had been mistaken, for Círdan not a moment later turned to walk back up the shoreline to the cobblestones of the city roads. And within a hundred steps he was lost from sight in the haphazard maze of stone architecture. But though Galdor returned to reading the parchment, not ten minutes had passed ere the sound of soft footfalls ascending the granite steps to the studies of various councilmen. And, not in the least bit surprised, Galdor set aside his work, closed shut the inkwell, and was just standing from his desk in greeting when a light knock came on his door followed swiftly by Círdan's entrance.

"My lord," he greeted with a nod. "How are you?"

Círdan glanced at him before closing shut the door and Galdor saw a glimpse of the deep exhaustion in his eyes that he could obviously no longer hide. But Círdan gave only a wan smile and went to stand before the large window. "It is good to be home."

"I am sure," he returned civically, going to sit along the cushioned sill with him. "Though the question remains of why you are awake still."

An eyebrow raised slightly, the only sign of possible amusement. "Does reason exist for you to believe I should be asleep?" he asked softly.

Galdor shook his head, and the air around him grew solemn. "Ëarhín spoke with me not an hour prior," he said, concern lining his voice. "He spoke of your exhaustion and leaving you to your rest. And after seeing such weariness in your eyes, I can help not but to agree with him."

Círdan looked out to the bay, his face a mask of calm composure. But such emotionless expression to be seen on his lord's face was a commonality, therefore Galdor spoke nothing of it. "I thank you for your concern, for you worry not needlessly," the Shipwright spoke evenly. "Yet energy I do have to stay awake a while longer. Though," he added with no trace of satire, "if Ëarhín indeed had spoken with you, I deem that he not only informed you of my fatigue."

Galdor inwardly winced. Yes, both Ëarhín and he were trusted companions of Círdan, but still, speaking of someone without their knowledge was not the most courteous thing to do. "No, my lord, he did not," he said, knowing he needed not to elaborate. "Are you angry with him?"

Círdan slowly shook his head, his gaze still cast out to the bay. "No, for I would be surprised if he had not spoken of our conversation to you; I know he cares and is concerned."

Galdor raised an eyebrow. "I cannot blame him."

Finally, Círdan's eyes swiveled back to peer into Galdor's gaze. And a light shone in them that Galdor could not interpret. "Nor can I."

Galdor sighed, not even desiring to waste the effort to conform to his lord's quiet manner in attempt to communicate effectively. Even after all these millennia, Círdan's detached nature remained as a foreign concept to him that he still could not fully understand. On normal days, it both sometimes amused and amazed him, but right now, after such a long day and all the disturbing things Ëarhín had told him…it was just not worth the effort.

"Then let us speak not of it, my lord, until we all have rested and regained our wits about us," he said. And he leaned back against the frame of the window. "What keeps you awake, my lord? Why have you sought me?"

A long moment of silence passed, during which Galdor saw no indication that Círdan had even heard the question. But then he answered. "The three I requested you to escort…how are they?"

He gave a nonchalant shrug. "As well as can be expected, I presume," he said. "They spoke nothing on the way, though it was no surprise, for they looked to be weary beyond endurance. I am sure they are now asleep, for after entering the guesthouse they thanked me, and then the one clad in white went swiftly to his chambers."

Círdan gave a slow nod and spoke no words, and at this rather ambiguous manner of silence, Galdor felt a sense of apprehension within. "My lord, what is it?" Galdor saw Círdan's grey eyes darken as he stood from the sill. And with a sense of foreboding, he immediately knew that, whatever it was, it was not good.

"Close the windows," Círdan spoke.

And Galdor did so with Círdan, snapping shut the shutters and drawing close the heavy drapes, cutting off any remaining light in the room. And after lighting two of the oil lanterns to disperse the deep shadows, Galdor surrendered his full attention to Círdan, for he could see that whatever had to be spoken of was grave indeed.

"What is it, my lord?" he asked again. "You make me uneasy."

Círdan turned and looked to him evenly, and no thought could be read in his face. "I am going to give Narya to the one clad in grey, whose name is Mithrandir."

The silence was deafening as Galdor just stared at him, his eyes slightly wide with alarm unconcealed. And then he shook his head, his brow furrowed, for he was certain that he had heard incorrectly. "What?" he asked weakly.

And Círdan spoke calmly once more, "I have decided to give Narya away."

Silence once more. Galdor looked desperately for some sign of jesting – however cruel – in his grey eyes, but found none. And Galdor knew that he was serious, for his lord possessed a quiet sense of humor, one that rarely shown and was hard to recognize when it did. And he certainly was not jesting now. And Galdor's mind came to a stop, uncertain whether to be more horrified or flabbergasted.

"Círdan," Galdor slowly spoke, his eyes grave and alit with a spark akin to being horror-struck. "No…."

Círdan returned the look evenly, a somewhat calm glimmer of detachment alight in his eyes that Galdor had long been accustomed to seeing. But the Shipwright stood in silence, speaking no words, and waited for his counselor to speak further. And Galdor felt his heart beat a little faster and harder when the realization of what his lord had just _said_ sunk further in.

"You cannot be serious," he breathed, for the sake of saying something – anything.

"I am."

"You cannot be serious!" he repeated, his voice hitched with incredulity. And he stared at his far-too-calm lord in equal disbelief. "Have you gone mad?"

Círdan gave a placating gesture. "I know this comes as a surprise, but you need not panic," he spoke calmly – a little too calmly, in Galdor's opinion. "I have put much thought behind this decision and deem it to be necessary."

"You _are_ mad!" Galdor shouted. And after realizing just how loud his voice had risen, he lowered it and spoke harshly, "How could you even contemplate giving away Narya, let alone to _them_?"

But Círdan was unrelenting, and his infuriating expression remained inscrutable and gave nothing away. "I know what it is I do."

And Galdor felt himself begin to panic. His lord was truly _serious_! "No, you do _not_ know what you do," he insisted coldly. "My lord, what lunacy is this? They are not even Elves! Aye, they are the strangest Men I have ever met, but this is just ridiculous!" He saw that he might have had more success talking to a chair and gestured with both hands in exasperation. "Why, my lord? Why? Just tell me why! Of what reason is there that you would even _risk_ such folly?"

And in his eyes, Galdor saw a flash of regret before Círdan released a weary sigh and shrugged helplessly. "As much as I want to, the 'why' is what I cannot tell you. All I _can_ tell you is that Narya should no longer be within my bearing and that she was never meant to be."

"Never meant to be?" Galdor repeated incredulously. "It was entrusted to you by King Gil-galad and only to you. And you have borne her with great wisdom and have proven worthy of the trust placed in you by all those who know you bear her."

Círdan shook his head. "That means not that she was meant to be. I would not be giving her away if I was not convinced that giving her to Mithrandir is the wisest course."

"The wisest course?" Galdor repeated yet again, starting to feel like a mockingbird. "Are you out of what is left of your mind? This is ludicrous!"

Círdan raised an amused eyebrow. "Left of my mind?"

Galdor fell silent and drew in a deep breath, trying to compose himself and muster the last of his patience. Just why was this so difficult for his lord to see? "My lord, forgive my harshness, but you cannot believe yourself to be in the right state of mind to be making such a decision. After everything that Ëarhín told me…." He trailed off, seeing the deep hurt in his eyes that Círdan tried valiantly to mask, and bowed his head. "I apologize for my words, my lord, but after everything you claim to have happened on that voyage yesterday, can you truly believe to be healthy of mind right now?"

Círdan sighed, whether of disappointment or anger Galdor knew not. "There was a time when you trusted my judgment, Galdor. I have claimed many things in the past beyond credibility and they have never stopped you."

"I do trust you, Círdan," he replied, his voice overflowing with sincerity. "I do, and I trust that you have reason for trusting this Mithrandir now. But some of the things you claimed in the past have never been this bizarre." He absently shook his head. "Honestly, my lord, four months?"

Círdan bowed his head and Galdor felt he would have given anything to know what he was thinking at that moment. "I know many things remain unclear, and I pretend not to understand all of them," he said. "I am confused more than you could imagine and honestly know not what to tell you. After all you have heard by Ëarhín, I cannot fault you for lacking confidence in my ability to think straight. But you may trust me when I say that, in this matter, I know what I am doing."

And Galdor looked at him. There was no pleading behind the words, just the hope that Galdor would trust him enough, only enough, as to not fear about him giving Narya away. But he couldn't; he was worried to the point of having a mental breakdown. Narya was too important – too dangerous – to be handed over so swiftly as this. If she should fall into the wrong hands, should come within the grasp of the Dark Lord….Valar, there was a reason why Sauron had hunted the Three so desperately for over a century!

"My lord, please, make no decision now," Galdor practically pleaded. "You are beyond tired, for I can see the weariness in your eyes and the fatigue lining your body. Please, obtain some rest afore thinking upon a subject so imperative and dangerous."

Círdan gave a wan smile. "No offense intended, but I have not come for your advice, only to tell you of my decision."

"None taken," he retorted wryly, but it was a poor attempt, for he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. "My lord, please reconsider," he tried one more time. "Should you deem that Narya must be handed on, I would question not your logic or wisdom behind it. But they were made by and for the Elves for a reason. To give her to this Mithrandir –"

"Galdor," Círdan quietly interrupted, a rather uncharacteristic thing for him to do. "I understand your fear; Mithrandir is no Elf, that is true, and that fact remained long in my thoughts upon deciding this." He hesitated and then pressed on, and Galdor saw the firm resolution in his visage. "There is something I know about Mithrandir and the others that I have sworn to keep silent. And it is by that knowledge I have chosen him. I know you are worried and cannot comprehend this, but know that this decision is not based only on what you and Ëarhín know about those Men."

Despite that his interest was piqued, his worry and full-blown confusion were far from doused. He no longer knew what to say to convince Círdan that this was madness by tenfold. Valar, where was Elrond when one needed him? If there were anyone who could impart sense into a grim and ancient figure such as Círdan it was Elrond, whom the Shipwright has such a soft spot for. He was the only one capable of making Círdan see sense concerning an Elven Ring, should it be needed (and it never was, if Galdor recalled correctly).

His distress must have shown (he was really not doing anything to exactly hide it), for he heard the quietly spoken words of the Shipwright once more. "If it will ease your distress, know that my decision is not yet binding," Círdan spoke reassuringly. "I shall speak with Mithrandir. And should his final words stir the slightest misgiving, you will see my return with Narya upon my finger still."

Galdor stared at him a moment longer and shook his head. "It appears I have no choice, and with that I must be content," he murmured, still far from pleased. And then he sighed in outright worry. "Please, my lord, what will it take to convince you to at least postpone this decision until the morn?"

Círdan only looked at him – Galdor hated that look, not because it had the tendency to make those under it want to squirm (which was quite a common effect on the younger lads), but because he could never tell what Círdan was thinking when his expression and eyes remained so vexingly blank. But he smothered his frustration and spoke nothing of it, for he knew the Shipwright never did it on purpose.

"My mind is made."

The words were spoken and Galdor did nothing more to contend them, for though he believed his lord to have lost his mind this day, it was because of the deeply instilled respect and trust he held for Círdan that stopped him from speaking out against his decision further. There was something afoot that Galdor apparently knew nothing about, though Círdan obviously did. All that truly remained in question was the wisdom or folly of who should bear Narya, come tomorrow. But he watched forlorn in silence as Círdan made for the door without a word.

But after opening the door and before stepping over the threshold, Círdan turned to Galdor and gave a wry grin. "I knew I should have told you of this after the deed was done," he spoke jestingly.

And Galdor returned the smile with a rather pathetic one of his own while he morosely watched as the door clicked shut. Absently, he wandered over to his chair and collapsed onto it, feeling as though the exhaustion of the day had just doubled.

When he had first joined the Shipwright after fleeing to Sirion, as most of the survivors had after the fall of Gondolin, he knew he had been skeptical of the Lord of Balar, if only because of the rumors that had flown of him. At first, the Lord of Shipwrights had unnerved him, but he could understand not why he had been unnerved so until centuries later, for throughout the passage of time Galdor had witnessed how Círdan had basked in the sound of Ilúvatar's Song. The Sea-elves were at first a queer folk unto Galdor's eyes (and in most other eyes of both Sindar and Noldor alike), for they reveled in the Music of the Waters and their voices carried the sound of the waves as they sang. At first, he had been a little deterred by it, even awed, but then he had been filled with envy for it, for it was a sound he had never been able to hear and probably never would. But Círdan, he had been told by others, could hear the Music of the Ainur as clearly as the bird-song in the trees.

It was then that Galdor had come to understand – after having it explained unto him by many people – that Círdan had fallen in love with the Sea, had fallen so in love with it over a period longer than ten thousand years by the end of the First Age that his life could no longer be lived without it. Perhaps he was being corrupted by the Sea-elves after so long a time spent among them, but as the centuries had passed, Galdor had slowly begun to understand just why the Shipwright loved and feared the Waters so, for it was alive with the Song of higher power and the Sea-elves had adapted to live and respect that said power that surrounded them in droves. It was a concept Galdor, at the time, had been incapable of understanding, for the wave folk had been attracted to the power of the Sea and, ultimately, the spirit of Ulmo, and the Noldor had gone to the greatest lengths to achieve the opposite; to get away from the Valar and remain as far from them in activity as possible.

He remembered his uncertainty of whether or not he should have returned to Aman after forgiveness of the Noldor had been granted and their Curse renounced. Galdor had sought out the counsel of many, for he had truly been torn. Most had replied that it was a decision none could make for him, for it would affect none but his own being. In the end he had sought out Círdan's advice, and even when he did he was still unsure that Círdan could help him, for it was an area the Shipwright had no knowledge of. The prideful bit of him had thought that Círdan would laud that he knew something the Sindar had no business of knowing over him, if indeed he had known anything, but Galdor would never forget what Círdan had told him when he had asked what he should do.

"The two shores of the Great Sea are not the matter of better or worse," he had spoken. "By darkness and evil both have been touched and are now both alit by Sun and Moon and the stars of the heavens, for no Light of any Tree now shines. By the Music of the Ainur both shores were sung into existence and the Song of Ilúvatar echoes in their every root, every stream, and every blade of grass. What you need to decide is not what land is greater, for by the decree of Eru both in greatness are equal, but what you desire within your heart; to return to the land of your birth and live in bliss without fear or cause for worry and let it be so everafter, or to reside in the unknown of the Hither Lands a while longer."

Ever since he had first met the Shipwright Galdor had felt a commendable amount of respect towards Círdan, mainly for who he was and the skill he so greatly mastered. But it was then Galdor had realized that Círdan had evolved to being beyond partial thought; he saw too far and too deep into the World to ever again make personal desires and opinions the priority. And that rather depressing fact had not changed all these millennia later, which was why half the population of Mithlond thought their lord rather strange and a little detached from the world around him. But despite the rather humorous perceptions of the Shipwright, everyone still blindly trusted him and trusted in his wisdom to always know what to do. It was rather admirable and astounding at the blind faith the Elves placed in him. Besides the fact that Círdan had experienced life more than all of them, he had also experienced and understood more than Elven perception ever could. There were many Elves of Aman who had been under the tutelage of several Valar, but while Círdan had only been a student under one Vala (excluding the familiarity with many others and their Maiar), he still comprehended what those many Elves could not.

And that was why Galdor let him go about this madness with Narya. Though Círdan always sought the counsel of those he trusted (only the arrogant and unwise of the knowledgeable were stupid enough to do otherwise), Galdor was not ashamed to admit that Círdan comprehended far more than he ever could. Perhaps he had been plagued by another bout of the Sight, thus leading him to this decision. Perhaps he had foreseen or sensed something that was so desperate that it was demanded Narya be given to another bearer. Perhaps he had received word from Ulmo once more. Perhaps this, perhaps that. Galdor trusted Círdan, he really did, but to give away Narya so readily and abruptly….Valar, where was Elrond when one needed him?

O = O = O

Círdan made for the guesthouse, and though his pace was leisurely in the eyes of the people still meandering about the cobblestone streets, it remained obvious that he walked with a purpose and had a destination in mind. Most Sea-elves still about the stone city were either finishing their day or already heading to their various homes, for only the narrow top of the disk of the Sun remained to be seen and the first bright glimmers of the arched latitudes of stars were already faintly visible in the evening sky. And those the Shipwright passed nodded in his direction as a small show of respect, but their lord seemed to take no notice of the deference, a fact that surprised them little. It was not uncommon, after all, for them to see their lord's eyes distant and air far away in the times he walked the city in the peaceful twilight hours; if he had actually appeared to the average eye to be aware of where he was and knew where he was going with a visible sense of vigilance, that would have been a cause for concern, or at least of interest.

But his feet carried Círdan through the maze until he arrived at the three-story crescent structure of the guesthouse and across the rather simplistic courtyard, in where a few of the keepers were walking about. But before he could enter through the double doors, Círdan halted in his steps when they were briskly opened and none other than Radagast stepped out unaccompanied.

And Círdan cocked his head, surprised, as he stepped forward again. "Radagast, I had expected you to be resting. Is everything well?"

Radagast smiled and approached him, a wave of weary exasperation crossing his face. "All is as well as can be, Lord Círdan," he said, and Círdan was impressed by how fluently he managed to hobble along with his staff. "There is no cause for worry."

"Then why are you not sleeping?" Círdan inquired. "For you spoke personally of being weary and in need of rest."

He nodded to that. "I am tired and look forward to when I can sleep. But do to…undesired circumstances I have decided to go in search of you to bid you my farewell, for I wish not to wait until the dawn."

An eyebrow slightly rose. "You are leaving _now_?" Círdan asked, the meager amount of surprise growing. "I hope no lack of courtesy on our part has offended you."

Radagast's smile widened. "No, my lord," he spoke softly. "Your people are very generous, and the warmth of their hearts has shone through in all for us they have done. It is only do to a…certain companion of mine that to leave early I have opted."

Círdan inwardly smiled as he heard the barely suppressed exasperation behind the words, and needed not to truly think to figure out who exactly said companion was that had obviously driven Radagast to enough frustration that he now opted to part from him. But before he could comment on it, Radagast continued, his smile fading by a little.

"It is as you had been told, my lord," he added quietly. "On the journey we shall not traverse together, for there lay separate paths before us to do as we were bidden. And my time is now." His smile grew once more. "Worry not for me, my lord, for though seldom will our paths be peaceful, we have the strength to fight it."

Círdan bowed his head, dismissing the awkwardness he felt at being called "my lord" by one whom he had submitted and deferred to with the same title. But though he saw the spark of laughter in his eyes, Círdan knew that Radagast did not do so mockingly, for there were people about, even in the courtyard around them, and as Lord of the Havens he was the first authority to all, including all guests. But it mattered not, for though it conjured unease within, Círdan was ever now self-conscious about their necessity of being incognito.

But there were so many questions left to be answered, questions he intended to ask of the Istari this night. Namely just why the Istari found it so important to shun him before his people, to act as though the four of them were strangers just scarcely tolerating each other's company. Círdan was wise enough to recognize that any lack of familiarity would aid the theory that they came from Forlindon, a short enough voyage across the Gulf. But still…everything could be not further from the truth, from reality, at least unto what Círdan knew to be real. He wished to demand no apology, no reparation, just an explanation, for Ëarhín already thought him mad. And by the words of Galdor, Ëarhín was apparently not the only being who felt that sentiment.

And Círdan felt that deep, confusing frustration well up within once more. To any of whom he told what he believed to have happened, he was not so arrogant as to demand (or expect) that they believe him. He was aware of the common opinion among his people that he was odd in their eyes on the normal day, and that his state of mind was far removed from the world around him, something he could deny not fully even to himself. It was one thing to tell a companion something and have them believe him insane, but it was another to actually wonder if their judgment was correct, for Círdan had never been more confused with a voyage across the seas. There was nothing he could be certain of anymore, save for the fact that he had truly sailed to the Enchanted Isles; the Istari were proof of that, even if the truth were to remain hidden from all in Middle-earth. But it was also true that not two days had passed. And the only beings who could provide an enlightenment would all be gone by tomorrow. Yet his peace of mind was no problem of Radagast's, Círdan knew, and so he raised his head again.

"I will not keep you," he said, the calm of his tone belying his discontent.

But too keen was Radagast to be deceived. "I sense your disquiet. What is your quarrel with my leaving this night?"

Círdan shook his head with a dismissive shrug. "Concern not yourself with it, for it matters little." He gestured absently to the city about them. "Is there anything we could grant you ere you depart to aid you on your journey?"

He shook his head. "I will be well for the few maiden days," he assured. He gave a wry smile. "I may look old and feeble, but I know how to survive."

The corner of Círdan's mouth quirked. "I never doubted it. Well," he added with a small sigh, glancing up at the evening sky, "the Sun has almost set, and I will hinder not your departure any longer."

Radagast gave a deep nod and went to step forward, only to halt when Círdan spoke up once more.

"Radagast?" The name was softly spoken, but in his eyes Círdan made certain to convey the full depth of gratitude he felt towards this Istar. "Thank you," he said meaningfully. And no two words, no matter their simplicity in meaning, could have been spoken with neither more sincerity nor gravity.

And Radagast's genuine smile grew. "You are very welcome, Master Elf," he said. "I partook in far too much joy in doing it, but far too beautiful and precious is your ship to be so marred." His smile grew. "And the swells of the sea she sailed flawlessly today, I believe."

Círdan absently nodded, unable to deny the claim, for she had been positively thrumming with liveliness out on the water. But he stepped closer and lowered his voice even more so that it sounded out just above a whisper. "I know that, for your kindness, you demanded no payment, but I will speak both in my gratitude and as to your purpose of walking Middle-earth." He paused as he looked gravely into Radagast's brown eyes. "If ever you need anything, hesitate not to call on me. I know not if I will be able to help you, but I will not refuse you."

He met Círdan's steady gaze for several seconds in silence and nodded once. "I shall remember it."

Círdan stepped aside and bowed towards him, uncaring of whether there were observing eyes on him or not, and gestured towards the esplanade that led to the greater core street of the southern city. "Then I bid you farewell, Master. May the Kindler light your path and Ilúvatar grant you comfort on your journey." The smallest hints of what might have been a smile touched his eyes. "Though I foresee your expedition will lead you to the furthest corners of Middle-earth, I hope to see you one day again."

Radagast flashed a smile. "You will," he spoke serenely, almost teasingly. "Mithlond, after all, is just south of one of said corners."

Radagast stepped forward once more, shuffling along in his worn, brown attire, and rested a hand on Círdan's shoulder as he passed. But he walked not half a dozen steps when he turned back around, looking upon the Shipwright in amused tolerance.

"May I speak words of counsel to you, my lord?" he quietly called, leaning on his staff.

Círdan raised a doubtful eyebrow that conveyed his disbelief that he needed to ask such a question. "Of course, Master Human," he retorted, mock sarcasm lining his words.

Radagast smiled, shaking his head in exasperation. "Learn to smile again," he insisted, though not impolitely. "Though your ancient age could have the tendency to make dirt look young, far too pure are you to be blinded to the delight about you." The smile faded a little. "Though your body fades, I see in your eyes and in the air about you that your spirit remains as ever as fire. And though it is evident that your spirit consumes you, to my alarm, look about you and when you see happiness, smile for it. Just smile again." His own smile grew once more. "You have become dangerously entwined with the Song of Ilúvatar and the Music of Ulmo's Waters, yes, but let not such detachment blind you from the joy and peace around you." A mischievous light entered his eyes. "If not, I may find the sudden urge to speak a few words with Ulmo in the time I next pass along a river."

And a small, genuine smile did crease Círdan's elderly face at that. "You do not play fair," he quietly jested. "But I hear the wisdom of you words, and will deny not that mayhap I have taken advantage of the blessings of peace given unto my people."

"Not taken advantage of, Círdan," Radagast corrected. "Only just walked by it without realizing so."

Círdan's smile widened, though partly in a grimace. "I promise to try."

"That is all I ask." Radagast bowed towards him and raised a hand in farewell and turned to go on his way. And Círdan watched him go, impressed once more by how the "Man" clad in brown managed to shuffle along so convincingly. And softly, he began to whistle, and it sounded as the song of birds. And after a few moments, he was then lost from sight in the maze of stone and Elves still walking about.

But the Shipwright wasted not a moment to sulk and turned back to the double doors with a purpose. He went through, quietly dismissing those who inquired if their lord needed assistance after inquiring the rooms designated to the Istari, and ascended up two sets of impressive staircases. And only a few turns and swift walks down several carpeted hallways brought him to one of the more insignificant homely parts of the house. And at the end of a dimly lit corridor, Círdan knocked on the single, smooth wooden door and waited.

There was no answer, which offered little surprised to the Shipwright. And he ended up delivering three more knocks ere the door was opened by a tired-looking Mithrandir, his outer grey garment removed and hair slightly tousled.

"Círdan," he greeted with no lack of surprise. "This was unexpected. I was led to believe you would be sleeping by now."

"So was I," he murmured, but then straightened and masked the frustration that started growing once more. "May I enter?"

A knowing light entered the Istar's eyes. "Of course," he spoke, stepping aside, "for I can tell that you are angry."

Círdan's eyes briefly hardened as he closed shut the door behind him. "Can you fault me for it?"

Mithrandir gave a wry grimace and shook his head. "No." And then he let forth a weary sigh and looked expectantly up and Círdan. "At me alone do you aspire to yell or is there need to wake Curunír?"

If there was any amusement present, Círdan failed to see it, for too overwhelmed was he with the frustration that now refused to be quelled. But looking into Mithrandir's compassionate – and knowing – eyes, he let out a small sigh as a wave of regret crossed over his features. "If you would, Master, please wake him. I truly apologize for interrupting your sleep, for I know you are weary and in need of the rest." He straightened and committed himself to what he came here for, no matter how discourteous it might be. "But also I know that you shall leave on the morrow, and I trust not my body to wake early enough to have this conversation. So please," he repeated, "I apologize for the inconvenience, but I would that Curunír would awake."

Mithrandir chuckled with a shake of his head and strode into the direction of one of the rooms. "It is no inconvenience, for we knew it was coming," he murmured good-naturedly. "Amazed we were, actually, that you had come not sooner."

Círdan waited in silence in the comfortably furbished sitting room, absently peering around at the heavily shadowed walls. And only mere seconds passed before Mithrandir returned followed by an equally tired Curunír who had obviously just been pulled from slumber. And Círdan took a moment to be impressed with how regal in bearing Curunír managed still to look, even after waking.

And he nodded his head towards the Shipwright. "Lord Círdan," he greeted, his voice as deep as ever. "I know you enjoy not the wasting of words, so speak plainly."

Círdan bowed his head and took a moment to gather his patience and smother his bothersome crossness, but when he looked back upon the two Istari his eyes had hardened in a brief – and rare – slip of his firm rein on his impatience and dormant temper, a temper that was so seldom roused that it was a terribly startling sight to behold when it was.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he asked sternly, but was unable to conceal the barest hints of desperation in his voice.

Curunír and Mithrandir exchanged an unreadable glance ere the former stepped forward. "Think you that we have reason to place upon you torment?" he asked calmly.

Círdan raised an eyebrow, forcing his fraying patience to mend. "And the answer lay within the question, does it not?" he asked rhetorically. "You have no reason to place torment upon me, for never have you placed torment upon me to begin with." He then sighed, any and all anger and resentment flooding out of him until he was left with only the heavy weariness. "Forgive my words, for I meant not to accuse you of such unkind acts. I know that any frustration I obtained was from my own doing, for I insisted on speaking of the details of the voyage, something you knew not with certainty that I would do.

"However," he added, his eyes faintly flashing once more, "I was unaware that you would feign such ignorance. Whatever madness I may be perceived to have is from my own doing, but why did you not inform me of this belief to be rumored that you came from Forlindon? For such confidence may have led me to keep my silence instead."

Mithrandir cocked his head, a light of concern in his eyes. "Had I misjudged you, Círdan? Remember you do, as well as I, that on the night we first met I had tested you. Had I deduced wrongly?"

Círdan shook his head. There may be yet many things of which he remained unclear, but to endeavor to disappoint the Istari in what they had concluded about him, in how they had trusted him, was something he never wanted to do. As Ulmo had stated, they needed someone to trust and confide in on this side of the Sea (and why he had been elected as said someone only the Valar knew why), and he would not encourage them to question that trust now. "No Masters," he insisted, "you have not misjudged, and I speak that not out of any sense of pride. Though I hope to never disappoint the people who place their trust and loyalty in me so, I have never allowed what is thought about me to rule into any thought or action I take. Besides," he added with a hint of the wry humor so rarely shown that it was more or less thought to be nonexistent, "many of the Sea-elves and people beyond Mithlond believe me to be already strange, or at least that my state of mind and soul has aged too much to be capable any longer of sensing the world around me. And to some extent," he added, "I cannot dismiss that, for at times most random, even in the midst of conversations, my mind will go adrift for no reason and not return until it decides to."

"Aye, I have noticed that," Mithrandir interrupted with a wry grin.

Círdan returned what he thought to be a smile, though it turned out to be more of a grimace. "Yes; so you can believe my words that any lunacy I am perceived to have from the tale of this voyage would only embellish the rumors, much to their enjoyment. I would never intrude on what people believe concerning what I know to be fact, even if they believe it to be folly." He drew in a deep breath and released it, wishing the weariness would drain out of him as the frustration had. "But therein lies the problem; I know not myself what to believe anymore. Of the times when I have been more confused than now there were only a few. I just wish for clarity on what happened ere I start to believe myself that I have gone mad."

If Curunír and Mithrandir registered the faintly desperate note lining the Shipwright's words or the near-pleading light in his eyes, they gave no indication. Instead, Curunír raised an eyebrow, the only sign of his slight surprise. "You wish not to know why we treated you as a common stranger?"

Círdan shook his head again. "Of course I wish to know," he corrected, "but what I wish to know and what I am entitled to know are two very different concepts. Besides, I sense I already know, for it aided you in the impression of being insignificant. And already I have been driven to the brink of madness by the ambiguity of you three, so why should I expect that to change now?" he added with a small smile to take any accusation out of his words. But then the smile faded to be replaced by the solemn, almost frightened light once more. "But what happened out there?"

Curunír and Mithrandir exchanged another inscrutable look. "What do you think happened out there?" Curunír asked with a light in his eyes and Círdan could not discern if it was either one of calculation or confusion. "After all, not even two days have passed and Forlindon is a logical place to voyage to in such a short time."

Círdan glared at him, for once forgetting the respect and admiration he held for this being. "Do not play with me, my lord," he said curtly. "I know my ship was carried to the Enchanted Isles. Despite all I have seen and witnessed in my life, my imagination could never conceive of such images I had seen on this voyage."

This time, Círdan was positive he had seen the calculating glint in Curunír's eyes. "But was it not true that ere you had truly began to sail the Gulf the Vala Irmo had come to put you to sleep?"

And Círdan felt a true sense of panic enter him. Ëarhín had very nearly suggested that everything he saw and experienced was nothing but a dream. But his voice remained calm as he spoke, easily belying the fright that continued to grow within. "I may be but an Elf with perceptions not so great, but I have lived long enough to know well enough my own being. And the Sight has taught me how to differentiate between reality and a dream. Have I so truly lost my mind that I lose the understanding of something as simple as that? It cannot be so!"

But no matter his willpower, his voice did betray the panic he felt, and both the Istari lifted a hand in a compensatory gesture as the questioning light in their eyes softened considerably. "Be not alarmed, my friend," Mithrandir spoke warmly. "You are correct, for it was no dream, and the _Fëagaer_ did sail to the Enchanted Isles."

"But how is that possible?" Círdan nearly pleaded. "As you so blatantly stated, not two days have even passed, and by the decree of Eru it is impossible to sail so great a sea is so small a time. It _must_ have taken longer, for by my experience it took four months, and yet it remains obvious that only a day and a half has passed!"

There was a long moment of silence as the two Istari stared at him and, feeling that he had made a fool out of himself enough already, Círdan remained silent, refusing to be the next to speak again. But Curunír stared at him in that unique way of his, his eyes piercing and commanding, but not impolite. And he went to speak and then stopped, and Círdan felt amazed when he realized that the Head of the Order was actually _hesitant_. But after another grueling minute, he seemed to arrive to a decision and spoke again.

"Lord Círdan," he began, an apologetic note in his voice, "you _know_ how it is possible that four months' travel was accomplished in two days."

Círdan stared at him, slightly incredulous, as he wracked his mind for unbearable moments. And then he shook his head. "No, I do not," he said plainly.

But Curunír was relentless. "Yes, you do," he responded. "In the deep recesses of your memory you know how it was possible."

That sense of frustration was beginning to enter once again into Círdan's being. "No, I do not," he repeated, just refraining from grinding his teeth.

But Curunír just nodded. "Yes, you do. It is for that reason Ulmo insisted that you be put to sleep for most of the voyage."

This time he did clench his jaw, his glare full of frustration intensifying. "I speak truthfully when I say I know not what you speak of! I have no knowledge on something as mad as this."

"Yes, you do."

Círdan had a vague sense of foreboding that they could be here all night. Yes, he was frustrated, but he had no real resentment against the Istari for not telling him what had happened, or even clarifying it. As the Istari had told him amidst the voyage, much had to be kept secret, even with him. And the rather forlorn thought occurred to Círdan that it had been by the orders of the Valar that they must keep their silence, and that they must keep all the details of their mission secret to all, save only to the Shipwright; that was in accordance with the Valar, not them. And Círdan _still_ did not truly know why he had been on the voyage in the first place. Yes, Ulmo had listed some of those reasons, some said reasons being to achieve _clarity long needed to the events of your past_, but upon his inquiry of why the Istari were not just sent to the Hither Shores by way of the Straight Path on a ship crafted by the Elves of Tol Eressëa, why he personally had to go on that voyage himself, Ulmo's answer had been very brief – he had been being tested. It had essentially been all for being tested, though being tested for what, Círdan remained ignorant.

And as much as that had frustrated him to no end, Ulmo had not elaborated any further. It was obvious to the Shipwright that, mayhap, some things about that voyage were to ever remain in the dark to him. And perhaps how four months became two days was one of them. Círdan remembered Curunír's hesitation not a moment ago, and the unusual reaction for a being like Curunír led the Shipwright to suspect that the Istari had been commanded by a Vala (perchance a certain Vala he knew very well, much to his chagrin) not to tell him. The two had hinted that he already knew the answer to his own question; that he had only to remember it. But no matter how hard Círdan wracked his memory, he could recall nothing of so bizarre a situation of what now frustrated him to no end.

And so Círdan let it be. If the Istari were under orders to leave him confused, he had absolutely no right to try and persuade them to disobey said orders. It was not the first time these Maiar had been vague with him, and he doubted that it would be the last. It was his problem only, and the Istari deserved not to be bothered by it. Perhaps one day he would remember whatever it was that Curunír insisted he knew (and as of now, Círdan doubted that day would ever come), but he had come to the guesthouse for a reason, said reason resting on his finger. And it was time to end this ere the night completely faded away.

Círdan raised his head and looked at the two Istari, whose brows had furrowed as he had stood in silence upon his thought. And he bowed towards them both, the respect and appreciation he felt for the two once more coming to the forefront. "I may not comprehend all that is happening around me, Masters, but I shall respect your decision to remain silent, even if that is something I, too, can understand not." He nodded towards Curunír. "I regret interrupting your slumber and ask that you accept my deepest apologies for being so discourteous, for I knew very well how much you needed it."

Curunír waved aside the apology in an uncharacteristic display of casualness. "All is well, Master Shipwright. Aye, I am weary and wish to return to my bed, but feel not guilty over it." He gave a meager smile. "As I am sure Mithrandir spoke, we are surprised you came not sooner."

Círdan bowed towards him again. "Sleep well, my lord."

"And you," he replied meaningfully before turning away to head back to his small chamber. Mithrandir glanced back and forth between the two for a moment and, in the silence, he smiled and nodded towards Círdan, but before the Grey Wizard could take two steps to his own designated chamber, Círdan spoke once more.

"Master, I need to speak with you alone." His tone was polite, but unrelenting.

Mithrandir halted and turned back to him in mock surprise. "You mean you will let me not return to my slumber also?" he asked jestingly.

Círdan gave a wan smile. "No."

Mithrandir gave a weary sigh, a tinge of amusement contained within, and went to stand alongside Círdan once more. "Very well. Of what do you wish to speak?"

Círdan hesitated and glanced at the chamber door that Curunír had just walked through. "If you please, I would speak where there are no ears to overhear," he spoke, and then added in an undertone, "not even those of your Chief."

Mithrandir only looked at him with those solemn, aged eyes of his and, seeing the gravity within Círdan's own, he gave a slow nod, obvious suspicion emanating from him. "Very well. I know not why you choose not to trust my Chief with what you have to say, but very well. To where do you wish to go?"

He gestured towards the entrance door behind him. "Let us walk along the shore. At this late hour, no person shall be present."

Mithrandir nodded in acquiesce. "Let me fetch my cloak and staff."

And as he shuffled away, Círdan once more prayed to the Valar that he was doing the right thing.

To be continued…

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><p><span>Next chapter<span>: Do we need to guess? Just in case we do, Círdan finally gives Narya to Mithrandir, thus fulfilling the main purpose of the story (again, finally). But…Mithrandir, as we all know, is incredibly modest and humble. He triumphs in the fall of evil and finds merriment when hope grows in the distressed, not power. Will he even want Narya, let alone accept it? In the next chapter, Círdan will soon learn that his frustration isn't over yet. And questions concerning the time issue and why Círdan was tested will soon be answered.

**A/N:** Two more chapters to go. Just stick with it a little longer – only two more! Review? Please? I'll resort to begging if I have to. :) Any and all words are welcome. And Ch. 9 is on its way! (Valar, I've been waiting for this chapter to arrive for months!)


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** for full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.

**A/N:** I apologize endlessly that this came extensively past my usual two weeks. In this chapter comes the essential point of this story and Círdan, for one last time, attempts to find out what in the world happened with that voyage. And a whole lot of other stuff. And once more, I would like to give my unending thanks to **Irkeyshn**, **Lia** **Whyteleafe**, **Sadie** **Sil** – **English** **stories**, **GreenGreatDragon**, **Zammy**, and **WiseQueen** for your reviews. As always, they were more than wonderful.

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><p>"The Red Ring of Fire. At first that Ring had been entrusted to Círdan, Lord of the Havens; but he had surrendered it to Mithrandir, for he knew whence he came and whither at last he would return." ~ J.R.R. Tolkien, <em>The Silmarillion<em>

**Chapter 9**

Círdan and Mithrandir took leisurely steps along the cobblestoned streets of the ancient city, gradually making their way towards the stretch of beach just in sight. Scarce light of the Sun remained, and only as streaks bold and thin across the western skyline, in hues of red and orange. The Moon, already arched high in the heavens, shone pure and bright and illuminated the midnight, inland waters in a silvery sheen. And all clusters of stars were already visible in the cloudless sky. Along with the deepening twilight hours, the city of Mithlond fell ever more silent as its inhabitants made their ways to their beds. And if but for the breaking of the swells upon the shore, all that might have been heard was the light _tap_ of the Istar's gnarled staff.

And Mithrandir looked around him with an observant eye, the tap of said staff lightly echoing on the cobblestones as their raiment fluttered about them in the light wind. "It is so quiet," he softly spoke. "Few people are still about, and yet such a silence is peculiar."

It was not that the silence was in any way deafening, but more so that it felt to be a tangible entity. One could help not but to be aware of it, as though it were not normal, but an exceptional splendor, unfurling as the night deepened. And it was true that very few people were still about. And those that were so were as silent as the city, inconspicuously moving through the narrow streets, as though fearful that their own actions would disturb the silence that Mithrandir now observed.

Círdan heard the words and looked around him. "I know," he quietly answered. "Always, to me, it seemed that my people shared the unspoken agreement to partake in the music of the night. Or," he amended, "more accurately, the silence of the night."

Mithrandir sent a curious glance his way. "You enjoy it."

Círdan nodded in acknowledgement. "It is why I spend many hours beneath the stars walking along the shore. The sound of the waves is a balm to the people, even in their sleep. But those among the wave-folk of the Falas and Isle of Balar are wont to attain profounder comfort and harmony in the greatness of the sea, for as you age, so it would be."

Mithrandir gave an absentminded grunt. "Ere I fail to recall my manners, I must thank you for your hospitality," he continued. "In all they had done for us, your people were very kind, even in the way a few gawked at us."

Círdan glanced at Mithrandir ere setting out his gaze to once more again observe how the meager light of the Sun set the distant water on fire. "Did you expect otherwise?"

Mithrandir shook his head and answered in his leisure. "Quite the contrary. To be truthful, I cannot say with certainty what exactly I had expected upon arriving in your olden city of Havens." He gave a wry chuckle and tilted his head in wonder. "Mayhap a part of me expected your people to be akin to those upon Tol Eressëa."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "Are we not, then?"

Mithrandir shook his head. "Neither better nor worse, only…different. These Havens…there is a sensation about them, a spirit about the people that is uplifting in a most peculiar way. It is as a mystery." Mithrandir glanced to his companion and, with no change in nonchalance, inquired, "By chance, to you did Radagast bid farewell?"

Círdan nodded, guiding the Wizard towards a leftward alley that would take them to an unobtrusive pathway, strewn with dried verdure, to the shore. "He did, in the courtyard of the guesthouse." He returned the glance, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "In leaving, he was rather adamant, for he spoke it was due to a 'certain companion'."

Mithrandir chuckled. "That was beyond entertaining to watch."

Curiosity bit at Círdan now harder than ever, and for just a moment, he was on the verge of questioning just what the two Wizards, White and Brown, had disputed over now. So badly, one might add, that it had broken Radagast's patience and tolerance. But again, he smothered the temptation; it was no right of his to know and, should it have been of any importance, Mithrandir would not have remained silent on the matter. "I am sure. Yet as ever, Master Radagast was kind in all the words he spoke." He shook his head in bemusement. "His last words of counsel to me, of all things, were to smile more."

Mithrandir chuckled again. "And right he is, my friend. Smiling makes you look beyond younger, and does remove millennia of burden and gravity from your eyes."

"Wonderful," Círdan retorted dryly. "When it comes time again that I will worry over how I appear, I shall remember it."

"Good. But all jollity aside, Círdan," he added, now grave in manner, "Radagast is correct still. Aye, your spirit consumes you, and though such consumption will never stop, smiling will help ease it, at least by a little."

Círdan did not respond to his words, for it was a subject he had no desire at all to discuss. And though it was not disconcerting, hearing such words not once, but twice, and from two different people, still made his spirit feel heavier. Though such a possibility might have been born from Círdan's reluctance to respond in the first place, he knew. And it appeared not that Mithrandir expected any answer, anyway. For that, Círdan was glad; he had ever been polite with his words and ever responsive to the Istari, but he was uncertain that he would have replied even if Mithrandir had requested it. Furthermore, it was too personal to even speak of, at least for him.

Only after they had descended the last few steps of the pathway and onto the shoreline itself did Mithrandir deign to speak. As Círdan had predicted, no person was present on the shore, and those that were in sight were but the guards on watch, and they remained at too far a distance to hear any words, besides. As a result of the cloudless night, the wind roared with life in no particular direction, carrying some of the ocean mist to where they stood. The sand underfoot, ranging from the soft dust to the shingles of countless shattered shells, ordinarily a color of light gold under the Sun, was now a cool white under the Moon.

Mithrandir gestured around them. "Very well, Círdan," he said. "Alas, the coast, per your request. Now, what is it you request to speak of?"

Círdan hesitated, his eyes grave as he studied Mithrandir's own. Though it seemed that the Maia had fully awoken – in both spirit and body – and was enjoying the lightness of the conversation, he was serious now and seemed to know that Círdan would have dragged him not out here for no reason. So, he gestured for Mithrandir to follow and they began walking south along the shore. And Círdan was certain to guide him high away from the waterline, for the tide was coming in and would not begin to recede, Círdan knew, until it had inched up along the shore by at least a dozen meters. And that moment was hours away.

"Nothing in particular," Círdan nonchalantly replied to the question. "Upon my balcony I was deep in thought upon all that had happened, trying to figure it out, as you can imagine. And upon recalling all that was said, my curiosity was piqued with a few matters."

"Oh?" he grunted. "About what?"

"The first is ridiculous," Círdan began, truly uncertain if he should even bother asking. "But I remembered when you jested with Curunír, how torturous it must be for the 'knowledgeable to be bereft of knowledge'. And to such he replied to go play with your fire."

Mithrandir waited. "Yes?"

Círdan shrugged, his brow furrowing. "Why fire?" he asked. "Does it hold some significance?"

Mithrandir smiled, his confusion fading. "Mayhap not for you," he spoke, his voice rustic and warm, "but for me it does. I am fascinated with the beauty of fire and Curunír knows it. Upon seeing it, it shall rivet my attention. Days I can spend just looking at it. No offense to you," Mithrandir added with a mischievous smile, "but of what is so fascinating about water, I fail to see."

"Mayhap I shall educate you one day," Círdan retorted, deadpan. "Does the Vala Ulmo know of your lack of captivation of his Waters?"

The smile grew. "Most probably," he spoke. "But never will tell him, for as I spoke before I now speak again; never would I endeavor to obtain the ire of Ulmo."

"It is said the Istari are wise for a reason," Círdan returned. "But, aye, you have quelled my confusion."

"Good," he grunted. "What else?"

Círdan hesitated, grimacing in the uncertainty of it. "Truly, the next taxed my understanding," he murmured. "By under decree of the Valar, you are forbidden to contest the power of Sauron with your own."

"Yes?"

There was another pause, but Círdan abandoned the hesitancy and plowed ahead. "But what shall come of the time should the Istari have need of it to fight?" he asked. "And both you and I know that many a time _will_ come."

"Then we shall fight bereft of power," Mithrandir spoke, the answer simple. "Recall, my friend, that our duty lay not in the opposition of Sauron by force, unless in a time of combat, for such is the exception. Remember, to bring about the fall of Sauron, we are to move the Free Peoples to beware of their peril, to unite them in love and understanding, and to bring them together in unity, eradicating all hostilities, through their mutual need to see Sauron defeated. Not to fight Sauron or his minions directly, lest there should be need to."

Círdan gave a placating gesture. "I understand so, Master," he amended, "and forgive me for my lack of clarity. But the exception you speak of is what I now refer to. The minions of the Dark Lord, be they great or small, grow stronger and larger in number through the passing years. This, I am certain, we both have seen. That you shall have to combat them time and again is inevitable. And so I ask; when such a time comes, and the strength of your body fails you, what shall you do?"

"If my life depends on it, or that of another, then I shall use power," he said simply.

Círdan's brow furrowed. "But you cannot. Both you and Master Curunír spoke that you cannot."

Mithrandir grinned, understanding now where the complication lay. "I see now where you were misled, my friend. Allow me to place before you an example. Upon my travels, if I need light and have no other resort, I shall summon light. We were endowed not with these staffs for no reason." He gestured to his gnarled length of wood as he spoke the words, and Círdan then realized that he had never given thought as to why the Istari all bore staffs to begin with. "It would be rather ridiculous to trip into a crevice because I could not see, not to mention embarrassing."

Círdan gave a reluctant smile, for that _would_ be embarrassing.

"You see, my friend," he continued, his words ever calm and patient, "when the Valar forbade us the use of power, they spoke in reference to the revealing of our might and glory. But if tapping into our reserves of power will prevent us from being slain, then so be it. But of that we are trusted by the Valar to have the wisdom to use the most marginal amount, and only as a very last resort. A further illustration: If I have need of a shield to stop a rain of Orcish arrows from piercing me, and bore none upon my arm and there is no place to seek cover, I shall summon a shield, strong enough only to evade the arrows. Do you now understand?"

Círdan nodded, his thoughts awry with this fresh knowledge, but the gravity of said thoughts did not fade. "I do, but with all due respect, Master, we both know that, of all you shall face, Orcs will be of the greatest triviality. But if there should come a time when you would be forced to face a greater foe, one of the Nine, for example…how much power would you deem wise to 'tap into' then?"

Mithrandir's visage seemed to age before Círdan's eyes as he gave a weary sigh. And it was then that Círdan discerned that Mithrandir – and the other Istari most likely, also – sensed and worried that he and such a high probability were already destined to cross on his journeys, and that it was only a matter of time that now remained. But he slowed not in his stride across the sand.

"If I were to face one of the Nine," he answered with an uncharacteristic sense of fatalism, "I would have to face him as Mithrandir, not Olórin." A small smile, wan as they came, was seen as he glanced at Círdan. "Always, upon the Hither Lands as I walk, I shall remain as Mithrandir. As Olórin, I have confidence that I could defeat one of the Nine. And I speak that out of no sense of pride, but an understanding of what I, as Olórin, am capable of doing. But alas, as Mithrandir, clad in a body of Man, I am now but a shell of him. And as thus, so I must face any servant of Sauron, be he great or small."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "Then what shall you do?"

The grim smile grew. "Pray to Eru." He shook his head, the smile vanishing. "Of such an incident I have no desire to think upon, at least not now, for it is a concern I shall have plenty of time to worry about. But do you now understand the decree the Valar placed upon us?"

Círdan nodded again. Indeed, he did, for he had realized not just how dependent the Istari would have to be on their prudency, how much the Valar actually trusted them to be wise beyond any others. "You shall be reliant upon your own judgment," he said. "But therein lays temptation, does it not? For since the Valar leave you – the Istari – to your own judgment, you would be enabled to cut corners with your duty and know that no retaliation will come from the Lords of the West."

Mithrandir gave a nod, slow and reluctant. "Such is true. In the end, the Istari can do as we please with power, use it when we deem it wise, even if a time when we use it is not as wise as we would like to think. As you spoke, it is a temptation, and one I believe we always shall have to battle."

Círdan glanced at him again. "And you would succumb not to the temptation?"

Mithrandir shook his head with no shred of doubt in his eyes. "No."

"How can you know that?"

"Manwë sees all, my friend," he spoke with a smile. "Always, the actions of the Istari will be under his observation; there is nothing we could do or say that he could know not about. And I have no doubt that he will look upon us from Taniquetil, time and time again." He sighed. "But it is more than that. To abuse the trust the Valar and my King have placed in me, by word of their decree and of my duty…to abuse such trust, I would dishonor myself and would be a disgrace upon my return home, whether by ship or by death." He looked at Círdan, a hint of horror in his eyes as he obviously imagined such a situation. "I could live not eternally with such shame."

And Círdan knew, with no shred of doubt, that he was speaking the truth. Amid the nightly voyage across the Sea, Mithrandir had spoken endlessly of his love and loyalty to his King. And Círdan knew immediately that he could relate to the situation he now spoke of, for the Shipwright equated it to how he would feel if he committed such betrayal to Ulmo. Círdan could only imagine the dishonor and shame and self-hatred he would be dwarfed by, day in and day out, and knew that Mithrandir would feel the same with Manwë.

"I believe you," he finally responded. And then inspiration struck. "But what if another source of power were present? After all, of the use of your own power the Valar forbade you. There was no mention if you found another."

Mithrandir turned to look at him, deliberately slow, and skeptical in his gaze. "Humor me; where would I find another source of power?"

Círdan huffed in bemusement. "I insinuate not that it shall be only just laying about somewhere. No being is that lucky. Long ago I have learned that the powers of the World reside not only in the West, as so many of the Noldor like to declare. The World is old beyond Elven memory, and in ways beyond our understanding. But allow me to use Mirkwood as an example. As I had spoken, the Greenwood has no Ring of Power, but there has always been the magic of the old forest. At least, such is what Men refer to it as. There is the Enchanted River, and then the gates of Thranduil's Halls can be not opened by anything save the words of the Elvenking."

Mithrandir furrowed his brow. "What is your point?"

"I apologize," he said. And then he looked to the sky, thinking carefully upon the wording of his question. "If you, by chance, came across a source of power and were able to wield it, would you, since the Valar spoke not of such a happenstance?"

Mithrandir grimaced. "I see why you would ask such a probing question," he spoke. "And it is, indeed, a good question. It is also a question I know not if I have an answer to. And again, it is just as great a temptation, mayhap even more so, for as you spoke, the Valar acknowledged not of it." Ever so slightly, he tilted his head to the right, deep in thought. "But such reason to resist the lure would be the same, no? For such an abuse of power, no matter its origin, would go against my duty. The Istari are not, under any circumstances, be they trivial or desperate, allowed to match the power of Sauron with our own." He shrugged. "To be honest, I believe not that my King, should I put what you spoke to him, would alter his decree in any way. For alas, in the end, power is still power. And in that end, still set is our forbiddance and duty."

Círdan fell silent, uncertain of what to speak next, not even certain that there was anything further to speak. Círdan had asked and Mithrandir had answered, honestly and bereft of doubt in his answers. He wracked his mind for many a minute and conjured not any answer he thought would have been greater to that last question than the one Mithrandir had given. But now the Shipwright grew wary, for he searched within himself for some shred of doubt, some shred of hesitancy towards the Grey Wizard. And he searched for such almost desperately, for it to be otherwise was just too good to be real. For as the Istar had spoken, Círdan's admiration and respect for him had only grown, as had his trust. Amid the topics of the conversation, Círdan had come to learn more of not only the Istari and their purpose, but the challenge for them that lay ahead, and the many temptations they would have to conquer also.

Círdan had spoken, whether brief or prolonged, with many Valar before in his elongated life, as well as Maiar. There was very little this day that could surprise Círdan or strike a bout of awe within – he was simply too old for such to be so. But Mithrandir did so now, quite successfully, too, for there was a humble wisdom about him that Círdan had never before seen the likes of in Maiar. Save for Ulmo, Mithrandir – the Maia Olórin, more correctly – was quickly becoming the wisest being he had ever known. And that was saying something. And despite how unwaveringly Círdan searched for some misgiving within, there just seemed to be nothing that he could admire not in Mithrandir, nothing that he could criticize or question. Save for his dislike of water; that was simply unforgiveable. But he remembered his words spoken to Galdor, and it was time to keep them.

"Círdan?"

Círdan returned from his muse with a start, realizing that they had been walking in silence for several minutes now and he had still responded not to what Mithrandir had said.

And after taking a deep breath, Círdan held out his hand in a gesture for Mithrandir to halt in his step. And Mithrandir did so, looking inquiringly at the Shipwright as the Elf stepped around to stand before him, his footfalls barely audible as they compressed the soft sand underfoot. And for a moment, silence reigned. But while Mithrandir waited expectantly for his companion to speak, Círdan lowered his eyes, such an action as well as his calm demeanor ensuring to mask the whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and fears that now flooded his mind. To Mithrandir, he looked to be only in idle thought, but nothing could be further from the truth.

This was it. This was the moment he had spent so many hours fretting over, the moment he had never once considered a possibility that would ever come. He was afraid, and Círdan held no shame in admitting that. Should all his foreknowledge and insight have been wrong and his wisdom misled, thus resulting in the abuse of Narya (whether immediate or eventual mattered little), all would take a turn for the worst, and in ways he had no desire to contemplate. But to smite any doubt, he had only to, once more, recollect what he had seen in Mithrandir, the knowledge and judgment he had gained upon such insight, to once more believe the wisdom behind the decision. For in all the times he had laid sight on what was to come upon the Hither Lands, never did he foresee the abuse of the power of the Three. And the Sight, as with the Palantíri, never lied. So, for a moment, Círdan absorbed the peace offered as he heard the sweeping waves upon the shingles and the breaking swells further out at sea. And when a wave of weariness overcame him, as his body impressed upon him just how late into the evening it now was, he looked again into Mithrandir's grey, patient gaze, whose eyebrows rose in an unspoken question.

"You were correct, Master; I did lie to you," Círdan spoke, the tense timbre of his voice briefly hinting at his enervation. "Or at least," he amended, "I did not confide in you honestly."

If he had not been so self-conscious of the possible error he was now committing to, he would probably have found Mithrandir's look of downright bafflement rather amusing. "I see," he slowly replied, his words smothered with the fact that he had no notion of where this conversation was going. "And you lied about what, exactly?"

"Aboard the _Fëagaer_, during the time of Master Curunír's inquiring of my knowledge of the Elven Rings of Power," Círdan said. "You were correct; I knew far more than I had revealed to Master Curunír."

Mithrandir gave a warm chuckle. "That was no lie," he said with a dismissive gesture. "I knew you had not, for I had even later confessed, if you recall, that I had a suspicion you knew more, to which you thusly replied that your silence is kept." Mithrandir paused and then spoke with a calm reassurance, "Maintaining a silence that you swore to keep is never a lie."

Círdan gave a minute shrug. "I took no exact oath, per se, but very well." He drew in a deep breath that foreboded a much-needed preparation for some exhaustive feat and turned his gaze away from that of Mithrandir's, instead looking out to the bay to admire the pure swells alit by the Moon. And when he spoke his voice was low in pitch and even, containing not even a sliver of emotion.

"As I am sure you know," Círdan began, "all Rings of Power were crafted by the smith Celebrimbor, son of Curufín, son of Fëanor, with the aid of Sauron; only the Elven Rings were crafted independently of the Dark Lord. But lo and behold, the Three still were crafted using the skills taught by Sauron, and were thereby all subjected to the power of the One Ring. But in the absence of the One Ring, the Three were crafted and wielded by the Elves for purposes of good."

He could sense Mithrandir's look of wary confusion beside him, but still refused to turn away from the shimmering sea. He had the need to speak it all afore turning back, for he was wary that Mithrandir might opt to interrupt him a moment too soon. "Know this, Master," Círdan continued. "The Three do not enhance the strengths of their individual bearers – that was not the purpose for which they were made, but rather to collectively preserve life – as I had told Master Curunír – and to provide concealment from evil. No source of evil can pass the borders of the Keeper's realm shorn of being detected by its Keeper; thus, the Keeper of whichever Ring is able to foresee the threat and forewarn others to dispel of it. But that is all; the Three possess no power to enforce retaliation, for such destruction would go against the very reason of their conception. Though, at the will of the bearer, the Three are enabled to control elements in their vicinity." He shook his head in minor disgust. "For me, it is a disappointment that Elves today have the tendency to embalm the past and regard change as evil. In my eyes, the Three Elven Rings were a mistaken attempt to forestall the natural fading of the Elves, crafted as an act of denial. In that way, the Three are so flawed in their very conception."

"Círdan –"

"For Nenya," Círdan deliberately continued, "her band was crafted with mithril and set with a white stone, an adamant. And thus, she is distinctively called the White Ring or the Ring of Water. Her Keeper is Galadriel, a Lady of the Noldor and wife of Lord Celeborn, and has been so since Celebrimbor gave Nenya to her in Lórinand after he had taken a short leave from Eregion. When in time the two of you may cross roads, inquire Galadriel of Nenya's exclusive properties, and if she is wise she will tell you."

"Círdan –"

"Vilya is the mightiest of the Three," he went on. "She contains a great blue stone, a sapphire, set in a gold band. And in turn, she is distinctively called the Blue Ring or the Ring of Air, a title that sets her precedence over her sisters. Ere the fall of Eregion, Celebrimbor sent the Ring of Sapphire to Gil-galad, who bore it upon his finger until the day he was cast down by Sauron. Ere the final battle before Barad-dûr, however, he had passed on Vilya to Lord Elrond, who is her Keeper still today in Imladris. And likewise, when you travel to the Last Homely House, inquire Elrond of Vilya's own exclusive properties and he will tell you."

"Círdan!"

And finally, Círdan turned his attention back to Mithrandir, calm in composure despite being under the full force of Mithrandir's rather impatient glare. "Aye, Master? I am now finished. What is it?" The innocence coating his words was far too evident to be authentic.

Mithrandir stared at him for a good moment before he spoke, rather dryly, "You forgot one."

This time, the small smile Círdan gave was genuine, but his eyes could not have shone more forlorn. Instead of speaking, Círdan lifted his right hand and gestured to Mithrandir an unspoken message to turn his attention to it. And with little effort, Círdan put forth the will of his mind to the band on his middle finger for the second time that day, and in a quick flash startling to the eye, Narya became visible once more.

And Mithrandir stared down at Círdan's ringed finger for a long moment in silence, unable to conceal the growing shock in his eyes as he registered just what it was the Shipwright bore. Círdan was not certain as to what Mithrandir had expected, but it was all too obvious that it had indeed not been this. And now the Grey Wizard was shaking his head. With what looked like a deliberate slowness, Mithrandir raised his eyes back to those of Círdan's, an eyebrow slightly raised, and a hint of his old humor was seen as he gave a wry smile.

"I did not expect this," he spoke, the crooked grin conveying all the irony he felt with the whole situation, not to mention his obvious surprise.

Círdan, in turn, raised an eyebrow. "For as you see her, behold Narya the Great," he announced. Círdan again looked down at Narya, and as though aligned with his parting thoughts, with a premonition of what was to come, it began to beat against his finger harder, as a pulse slowly quickening. "As you can see," he continued, his voice faltering at Narya's slight change in behavior, "the band is of gold, and is set with a great stone of ruby. With Vilya, it went into the safekeeping of Gil-galad by the will of Celebrimbor. And only had a short passage of time passed ere the High King had summoned me to his study in the mid of night. Present with us were only three others: lords Elrond, Celeborn, and Glorfindel."

Círdan's eyes took on a distant glaze as he recalled that very night, and clear as the Sight, he could see the moment present before him now. "Vilya and Narya had lain exposed on his desk, looking all the more potent and ominous as they reflected the low candlelight." He gave a humorless laugh. "My exchange of words with Gil-galad had not exactly been pleasant, for Elrond and Glorfindel had seemed to desire for nothing but to blend in with the walls and disappear. Celeborn had looked hardly any better.

"But nonetheless," he concluded, "within the hour the stalemate had been absolved, and from that night I have ever borne Narya the Great." Círdan gave a weary sigh, suddenly looking every year of his great age. "Never had I any desire to bear Narya and today still, I am its Keeper."

If Mithrandir took notice of how Círdan prudently avoided speaking about Gil-galad for not a moment longer than he had to, he made no mention of it. But he had continued to occasionally nod as Círdan had spoken about the Red Ring, in the polite manner to signify that he was listening. But now, Mithrandir looked at him in unclouded suspicion and, one would easily go so far to say, in downright concern. "Círdan, why are you telling me this?" he cautiously inquired. "As you were entrusted with her, so also were you entrusted with her secrecy. And though I thank you for the trust you so evidently place in me, how can you feel so at ease to enlighten a stranger with that you have kept silent for millennia? Tell me a reason is there, please," he insisted, "for I desire not to think ill of you."

And at the question, Círdan was granted the sensation of a calm sense of resolution. Círdan looked back down at Narya, which was still tangibly pulsing against his skin, and, for the first time, was able to feel a sense of peace as he studied the Ring of Ruby. Not a sense of loathing, not a sense of deeply ingrained reluctance, but a long-awaited sense of peace. It was over. It was finally, actually, over. And as Círdan looked at the gold band upon his finger, looked at the distorted reflection of the stars littering the sky in the cut ruby set upon it, he felt his heart grow heavy, and felt his chest compress under the moment he had once thought would never come.

"Upon my finger you have laid, and sent me your life through the beat of your stone," he murmured with words so soft that they broke upon the crashes of the tide. And he looked to the tide now, his keen gaze sweeping over the endless rolling swells, the moonlight and reflection of the stars that glistened on their crests breaking and shimmering. "And with the Sea my spirit shall now be bound in full, for it shall take to the waves and from all burdens be free." And Círdan looked from the pure water of the sea back down to the crystalline red stone on his finger, taking no notice of the look of concern Mithrandir sent him, since he was talking to an inanimate object. "And words spoken only once before I now speak again, first to the Unwilling and now to the craft of the Elven-deep: Farewell to you, I say, for bound to my spirit you never again shall be."

And with his other hand, he took hold of the Red Ring and removed it from his finger.

And immediately, his breath was taken away and he staggered where he stood, and only the ready hand of Mithrandir caught his arm before he could fall. But as Círdan looked about him (after regaining his breath), he was rendered speechless. And not even Mithrandir's repetitive calling of his name could penetrate the shock and wonder that now dwarfed Círdan's mind. Valar, Círdan thought with incredulity, what had Narya done to him?

It was as though a shroud had been lifted from his eyes; the stars shone more bright and great, the waves breaking upon the shore and distant sea roared with the life of the ocean and sang with the music of Ulmo upon each break. He could smell the salt on the air and the scent of the fishing nets and wood-smoke carried downwind from the harbor. He could feel the grumblings of the earth through the sole of his footwear and could feel the breeze slither across every inch of his exposed skin, blowing the loose strands of his hair across his face and neck. Valar, even his ability to breathe came easier. He could feel the fire of his fëa soar with the full force of its livelihood. And Círdan could help not but to wonder again; just what had Narya done to him?

"Círdan!"

He snapped out of his daze, Mithrandir's tempered shout of fully-blown worry finally penetrating his mind and reeling thoughts. Círdan turned back to him, taking notice now of how Mithrandir watched him warily, his hand still half-raised in the preparation to catch him again should he stumble.

"Are you well?" he finally asked.

Círdan closed his eyes and gave a wry grin. This time, when he sighed, it was one fully of contentment. "Rather ironically," he answered, opening his eyes, "I am better than I have been in a long time."

Mithrandir continued to look at him warily for a moment longer ere he was convinced to let his worry settle. "I am glad of that," he said, seemingly for the sake of saying something. "What happened there? You looked to have been seeing the world for the first time."

Círdan glanced down at the Ring held between his fingers. It was rather strange to no longer feel the constant beat of the ruby. "In a way, I did," he murmured. "I had never once removed Narya from my finger until now, lest it might have been discovered. Thus, I had no expectation of what would happen."

Mithrandir raised an eyebrow. "And you feel content to do so now, of all times?"

Only a moment of silence passed ere Círdan held out Narya the Great to the Grey Wizard, the red of the ruby glimmering bright. The Shipwright watched in careful scrutiny, speaking no words, as Mithrandir seemed to absently study the Ring he held between forefinger and thumb, a few strands of the grey hair wafting across his face. And only a silent moment passed ere his grey eyes dawned in understanding, the message Círdan conveyed in his silence shining clear in their depths. And Mithrandir looked up at Círdan in a mixture of something akin to disbelief and dismay, as he gave a slow shake of his head. "Círdan…."

But before any further protestations of Mithrandir's could be made, Círdan spoke: "Take this ring, Master, for your labors will be heavy; but it will support you in the weariness that you have taken upon yourself." He nodded down towards Narya, briefly directing both of their gazes to the object of their discussion once more. "For this is the Ring of Fire, and with it you may rekindle hearts in a world that grows chill." To the rolling swells Círdan looked out, and felt his heart ache at hearing their beating rhythm. "But as for me," he softly continued, "my heart is with the Sea, and I will dwell by the grey shores until the last ship sails. I will await you."

And with the closing words, he extended the reach of his right hand further towards Mithrandir in the silent urge for him to take hold of the Ring. But Mithrandir seemed to be only one step away from retreating from the rather simplistic piece of jewelry, for, by the gravity of his gaze, he seemed to loathe the mere sight of it. And Círdan found himself strangely glad with the fact; if Mithrandir had attained an air of nonchalance at the sudden proximity of a Ring of Power, it was probable that it would have been a cause for concern. To put it plainly, Mithrandir's initial reaction, so far, pleased him – he did not want it. In fact, he appeared to be repulsed by the mere notion that Círdan wanted him to have it. And his next words proved Círdan's assumption correct.

"Círdan," Mithrandir again began with another despairing shake of his head before, again, falling silent. He continued with the absent shaking of his head as he studied the deceptive simplicity of Narya, a temptation that Círdan knew was hard to resist, for he, too, upon first bearing her, had been entranced by her red depths. Not out of any sense of being overwhelmed, no; but rather from the fact that Narya contained an elemental power and substance that he had never lain sight on before, even in the Silmarils. For Círdan, being entranced by Narya had been tantamount to first seeing the Star of Eärendil – one just could not take their eyes away from it, so captivated were they. But through the passage of time, one grew used to it and was able to contain their wonder.

But the keen light in Mithrandir's eyes was not one of awe – how could it be, Círdan wryly thought, for Mithrandir originated from a place where the wonder of Narya must pale incredibly in comparison. It was one of just mere curiosity, and Círdan pondered what thoughts were passing through the Istar's head as he continued to study the Ring. Perhaps he was curious at just what powers the small stone contained, and Círdan's thoughts went through all her layers once more. And at the – rather accidental – touch of his mind, the stone of Narya flared in a bright flash of red, the revolving rays of light emerging from her infinite depths.

And at the brief flash of light, Mithrandir finally seemed to manage to pull his gaze away from the ruby and, instead, looked at Círdan with an apologetic gaze, with a sigh and another shake of his head. "Círdan," he began again, weariness entering his tone. "You cannot give me this Ring."

"I can," Círdan insisted, "and I am." Again, he extended Narya closer to Mithrandir, and this time, he did take a step back.

He held up a hand, the gesture counseling against any further words of persuasion. "No, Círdan, you cannot," he repeated, his voice firm and unyielding, and eyes hard. "Please, believe not that your people can afford to be bereft of her."

"Such judgment is mine to make," Círdan replied, his own voice a foil to his companion's, for it was calm and soft spoken. But his eyes, rather ironically, were just as unyielding as the other's. But they softened as Círdan gave way to a small sigh, though he did not retract his hand. "I know you stand against this, Master, but you may hold me to my word when I speak that the powers borne in Narya will aid you in all you do.

"You and Masters Curunír and Radagast told me, in detail explicit and full, of what duty you are so bound to here in Middle-earth," he continued, the insistence growing in his voice as the reluctance in Mithrandir's being visibly increased. "As I had spoken, Narya, like her sisters Vilya and Nenya, is chiefly prevalent in the giving of resistance to the weariness of Time. But such power will concern your journeys little, if not at all." Mithrandir went to speak, but Círdan would not allow it. "But aside from the other powers I had spoken that the Three chiefly possess, Narya, uniquely on her own, has the power to invoke hope in others around her wielder, in those around her Keeper." He gestured a question with the other hand. "And is such an endeavor not what Istari are duty-bound to achieve? For par your words, the Istari are bidden to advise the Free Peoples to do well, to seek to unite them in love and understanding, and to persuade them to resist the domination and corruption of Sauron. And furthermore," Círdan added, "Narya will, both with and without your will and control, she will _inspire others_ to resist all tyranny, domination, and despair, be it of Sauron or no. And as I had hitherto spoken, she will alert you to any and all evil that may approach you, in any form, long ere you will sense it yourself."

Taking advantage of Mithrandir's silence, Círdan grabbed hold of Maia's lax hand and rested the gold band set with ruby into his palm, and the red stone briefly flashed in its brilliant light once more as she met the touch of a new hand. "Please, Master," Círdan nearly pled, incapable of removing his eyes from Narya the Great as he, with a sense of foreboding, came to accept that he would lay sight on her no longer. "Take the Ring of Fire, and allow her to aid you in all you do, in ways she could never aid me; for with you as her Keeper, good shall come of her making at last."

Silence reigned once more, only this time it was anything but tranquil. And Mithrandir just scrutinized the Ring resting in his palm, his thoughts undoubtedly in a whirlwind, as Círdan, in turn, studied him. Mithrandir's reluctance was still present. Though, to Círdan's eyes, it appeared to be more of indecision than downright refusal. Círdan was able to discern, with great ease, in fact, that he had tempted Mithrandir, and had tempted him greatly. Middle-earth was, essentially, now no more than an unraveling shadow. Sure, times of light and peace occasionally prevailed, but the conquest of the Shadow remained unattainable as the growing evil, year after year, slowly took hold of the life of the Hither Lands. On Mithrandir's soon-to-be arduous journey, one problem after another was to be expected, and with no reprieve at that. Such was the burden of the Istari and the sacrifice that they had willingly committed to. But now, Círdan had offered him an aid to that burden that seemed too good to be true, that was too perfect and too aligned with his own duties to be real. But it was, and the fact that so great an aid was now being so freely offered was a powerful temptation to resist. And at Mithrandir's continued reluctance and wavering, Círdan came to realize that the Maia knew just what weariness lay ahead of him. And that it was that knowledge that stopped him from downright refusing Narya now.

Mithrandir sighed again and looked up into Círdan's waiting and steadfast gaze. "Círdan, I will not deny that you tempt me greatly with this offer," he said. "But why?"

"As I have spoken," Círdan replied, "I have foreseen the weariness you will have taken upon yourself when you commence your journey, come dawn. Bound now in body and thereby limited, you will be tired and your feet raw from cross-country. And your spirit, as fiery as it is, will be weighed by the burdens of Middle-earth you have taken upon your shoulders. No, from such weariness you cannot fully be spared, but Narya will, at least, alleviate it and grant you strength and the hope that it will in others also."

Mithrandir sighed once more, this time sounding as old as he looked, which was rather impressive. "That I understand, and believe me not ungrateful, because I am. But why? I am no Elf to bear and Elven Ring and am enabled to go without her. Why would you risk such a feat of giving her away?"

Círdan gave a ghost of a smile as he came to understand what he meant and took a cautious step back, wary of the fact that Mithrandir just might be inspired to pass Narya back to him in some manner, devious as he was. "I am obligated to," he answered him. "It remains true that you are no Elf, but it was _you_ who taught me that Elves and Maiar are not so different at all, save only in origin." The wan smile grew. "Believe not that such differentiation was not a large element in my contemplations of gifting her to you."

But Mithrandir seemed to have taken notice of only the first words Círdan had spoken. "Why do you feel obligated?" he asked, or rather demanded, his tone of voice unrelenting. "The duty of the Istari is not yours to take any part in. The only duty to which you are bound to is that which you swore to – to keep your silence to all on our real identity and purpose, for you will be the only one to know. Your duty stops there."

Another short silence fell, where only the light ocean gale and breaking waves could be heard, as Círdan studied Mithrandir. With the words he had spoken, his grey orbs remained hard and unwavering, unwilling to back down on what he believed Círdan was mistaken with. And they were bright, authoritative, and offered not one sliver of compromise. The cloak of Mithrandir, the elderly body in garbs of grey that shuffled along as though he were weak, could not conceal the fact that the Maia Olórin looked fully out from those eyes, for Círdan knew of no gaze that could tempt him to want to retreat and give up his argument by only one look, save the gaze of the Maiar and Valar. That was so typical, Círdan mordantly thought, that Mithrandir would use such an advantage on him that he would be incapable of using on all others.

But time and time again, Círdan had raised a question and even a disagreement with the Vala Ulmo, who terrified all Elves by just his mere presence. Mithrandir's potent gaze, with all due respect, of course, paled just a little bit in comparison. And, for the very true fact that Mithrandir's words were, indeed, valid and correct, Círdan would have ended the disagreement then and there. But nonetheless, for the sake of what he believed was at stake, he held firm and shook his head.

"With all due respect, Master, but I believe it does not," he finally responded, his voice quiet and deferential. "I do not declare you are in the wrong, for you are not, but hear why I feel obligated. I, again, am honored by the trust the Istari have placed in me by with that you have confided in me. Aye, I have sworn my silence, of which I will keep, but you _did_ confide in me, whether by mandate of the Valar or no. And by no means possible can I foresee being able to forget all that you three have spoken. I have found a decent way, I believe, to aid you through gifting you Narya, and I would dishonor myself by deliberately ignoring such an opportunity."

"And what of Mithlond, Círdan?" Mithrandir insisted with no lack of gravity – or urgency, for that matter. His voice was low in pitch and his eyes gleamed with unease. "Of the Havens you have so guarded and lorded from the moment of their conception? Of her people that only the blind would not see that you would die for? Be not so lax in giving away her shield."

Though such words, born of the Istar's disquiet, bordered on an insult of negligence, Círdan gave no sign that he took any offense, for there was no offense to be hinted as the Shipwright heard the words. He nodded at Mithrandir's question, for it was a good one, but felt the barest hint of exasperation within; how foolish he had been to presume Mithrandir would be easy to convince to uptake the burden of Narya. But then again, he amended, in the Maia's defense, Mithrandir and his companions were entrusted with the mandate of the Valar to, in the end, ensure and see that the protection of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth from the evil of Sauron was wrought and contained at every expense, even unto their dying breath. To so crassly strip an Elven population of what might be her "shield" would be rather counterproductive.

"I understand your worry," Círdan steadily reassured. "But know that, for the most part, it is unfounded." He gave a small shake of his head in dismissal. "But by the son of Fingon, it was entrusted to me only to keep secret, to be candid, for here upon the West-shores she is idle." He glanced at the ruby-set band of gold still resting lax in Mithrandir's open palm. "But I deem that in days ere long to come, it should be in nobler hands than mine that may wield it for the kindling of all hearts to courage."

Mithrandir went to speak, but Círdan pressed on ere he could do so.

"Narya provides Mithlond safekeeping from danger, it is true," Círdan continued with a nod. "I may have had no love in its bearing, but for the sake of the people of the Havens, I had summoned forth the powers of Narya to detect evil and deliver concealment from it."

Mithrandir nodded. "I am glad to hear it, for I would imagine not you allowing your judgment to be effected by hesitancy."

Círdan shrugged and then his eyes hardened, hardened in the way that a parent's would when talking about the wellbeing of their child. "Never has the hand of Sauron conquered my Havens," he spoke. "Whether by the intervention of the Vala Ulmo it is so, or by sheer luck, I know not. But in the protection of my Havens, it has not failed yet. So thereby, I shall trust in that intervention a while longer."

Mithrandir gave a despairing shake of his head. "My friend, you depend now on chance. For the sake of Mithlond, you must be the Keeper of Narya still."

And Círdan matched the negative shake of the head with one of his own. "More grave is your task and more great is your need," he said. "I have need of it no longer, for if my Havens are destined to fall into ruin, nothing shall prevent it from happening, not even all the Rings of Power combined."

"And your people?" Mithrandir insisted urgently, nigh on desperately, willing for the Elf to see sense. "Long have we spoken of how you would infringe not upon a greater matter with your own heart, lest the outcome turn for the worse." He took hold of Círdan's arm in a firm grip. "But Narya concerns not you alone; not only is it about your safety. Your people, the Sea-elves, shall be affected by this decision." Mithrandir sent him a long look of forlorn and severity. "Would you sacrifice your people?"

A great pain grew in Círdan's eyes, and they seemed to dilate with the hurt he could not conceal. His breathing distinctly hitched and his throat constricted as he spoke the words, barely audible, "You ask a harsh question."

Mithrandir gave a single nod. "So I did," he said, his gaze apologetic and yet still, unyielding. "Yet, in the end, it may be just so. So I ask again, would you sacrifice your people?"

The silence that followed could be not more uncomfortable. Círdan knew what it was that Mithrandir asked, that it was strictly a hypothetical question, but still, he could not quench the uncertainty that now dwarfed him that he had not felt for millennia. It was a harsh question, one that he could not answer, even to himself. "I know not," he murmured. And his eyes were averted as he shook his head, looking out into the distance. "I am a coward. How can I not answer so simple a question? If fully reliant upon Narya my people were for their safety….I truly know not if I would give her to you." He shook his head in self-disgust. "As I said, a coward I must be, for I believe I would not even possess the courage to make that decision, let alone act upon it."

He turned back to Mithrandir, shame mingled with sorrow upon his brow, yet still, that unbreakable sternness he had always carried with him shone through once more. "But alas, no such decision is before me, for the Elves of the Grey Havens rely upon Narya not at all," he said. "I believe fully that the Vala Ulmo is here, and that Master Ossë remains always present on these shores." He gave an absent, helpless shrug. "And should the hand of Sauron, by some misfortune, reach my Havens and conquer, my people ever have an exit; for always our ships are ready to cast off and fend."

There was a pause where nothing but the breaking of the shore was heard. "And under these terms, I answer yes," Círdan said, agony of fathoms deep palpable in his eyes. But his answer was sure, unadorned with the slightest hesitation. "I would sacrifice my people. And if death falls upon them as a result of my decision, if torture should befall them ere the death blow dealt…so be it." A noticeable tremor went through his frame as he foretold the possible doom. "Their deaths will be on my head, and I will submit to whatever justice the Valar would condemn me to."

Mithrandir looked upon him, his gaze troubled. "Círdan…."

"I believe in you," Círdan continued in a voice quiet, but sure. "I have to. For if you fail all of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth may be doomed." He gestured towards the Red Ring. "And if Narya will aid you in any way, then I gladly give it to you. For if there would ever come a time when you were in need of her aid and did not have her…that is a guilt I wish not to ever bear. I would rather you have her and not need her than need her and not have her." He gestured again towards Narya. "Please, Master, take it."

Mithrandir heard the near-beseeching tone in the Shipwright's voice and gave a small laugh, shaking his head this time in bemusement. "You are a difficult Elf to argue with."

Círdan raised an incredulous eyebrow. "That, I believe, is the pot calling the kettle black," he retorted, a hint of his old humor coming to the surface. And then he took a deep, wary breath. "So you will take it?"

Mithrandir nodded, studying the Ring as he turned it about with his fingers. "Be at peace, my friend; I will. As I had spoken, you tempt me greatly with what aid the Ring of Fire has to offer. For me, I know what lies ahead, and now a small part of me may be at ease." He looked up in question. "What am I to expect?"

"Upon placing it on your finger," he said, "Narya will become invisible, and shall remain so unless by your will." He gestured uncertainly with his hand. "Understanding the Elven Rings is not an exact art. Only by four people they have been borne, and upon my exchange of words with both Gil-galad and Elrond, they each had a different account as to when they first placed Vilya upon their finger. Based on such vague knowledge, it would appear that the Rings react differently with each Guardian.

"But for now…." Círdan paused, searching for the right words. "Allow a moment for Narya to feel you, to know her new Keeper. At first, you should feel a pulse, as a heartbeat, against your skin, of which will fade away as a short time passes. For me, Narya had remained always a subtle presence in the back of my mind. It was no distraction, yet when I thought of her, Narya was there. Mayhap you know already of it, but just take the time to be accustomed to another presence."

Mithrandir grunted, and after turning the Red Ring this way and that a few more times, he slipped it on his finger. And sure enough, Narya vanished without a trace, leaving behind no sign of her presence. But Mithrandir continued to stare where Narya passed from sight, for moments long after what would be considered normal, and Círdan then knew that the Grey Wizard was, indeed, feeling the sensations that he had described. And mayhap more so, for the Shipwright recalled clearly how it had felt when Narya had made a home in the recesses of his mind, ever warm, ever present, and ever subtle. And at the calculating glint in the Istar's eye, Círdan discerned that some transition, be he familiar with it or no, must be taking place.

And finally, Mithrandir looked to come to from his daze, venting a large sigh. "Correct you were, Master Mariner," he spoke, his eyes still riveted on his seemingly bare finger. "It is felt in ways more than one, as well as the beat you had described." He cocked his head, his brow furrowing. "Of all things strange in this World, the Three can be accounted; so small and simple is the stone, and yet it feels to have a life of its own."

"I know," Círdan murmured in baleful agreement. And he did know; Narya was inanimate as they came, at the complete control of the will of its bearer. Yet she drove in accordance with thoughts and emotions, in times few and far between shorn of prompting. Yet inanimate she remained. But as it was spoken, there was no concrete answer, only that it was strange. "Narya keeps its presence always on the hindmost. Never had I realized just how much of me she had drained till I had removed her this night."

Up went a quizzical brow. "Is such what I am to expect?"

Círdan shook his head. "I doubt it, Master, for I bore it with great reluctance. It is most probable that one must bear a Ring willingly to coexist well with the presence of its powers. And the thought had long lived with me of having to bear Narya for all my remaining years upon the Hither Shores, which helped little."

Mithrandir grunted again, deep in thought, as he peered keenly at the Mariner. "And what is this you speak of, dwelling upon the grey shores forevermore?"

Círdan shrugged in a gesture of calm and ease once more. "I told you," he spoke. "My heart is with the Sea, and to Eldamar all Elves shall go before me; with such resolve I have long ago made peace. Thus, my end is simple to be told, for I will sail the last ship across the Sundering Sea."

Mithrandir's eyes seemed to be overcome by some realization. "Sailing will be agony for you."

As a statement he spoke it, for it was undeniable. But it was the understatement of the century and both knew so. Yet even so, Círdan still responded. "Aye, it shall be," he said, unflustered by such truth. "The lands on this side of the Sea are all I have known. Never could I forget how I have walked all the land flanked by the Seas Sundering and East, the Sea of which beyond no person can walk, for there lay the Walls of the Sun. Every step…." He gave a humorless chuckle. "I remember every step taken from Cuiviénen, through the Wild Wood, through the south of the Northern Waste, about the Inland Sea of Helcar, through Rhûn, through Middle-earth, and all through the land of Beleriand until the Great Sea was at my feet."

Mithrandir spoke no words to the recounting of the Great March, not that Círdan expected him to. Both knew that, for the Shipwright, there were none left with to remember such times, and neither would there ever be any again to speak of it with until he did, in fact, sail to Eldamar. And so, Mithrandir let such melancholy be – there had been more than enough this night, anyway.

"Well," he said in a lighter tone, "though such words seem empty in light of all we had discussed…thank you, my friend, for the giving of Narya."

Círdan gave a single nod. "Though it goes unspoken, I must still beseech of you to keep it secret."

Mithrandir was already nodding. "You have trusted me thus far, and you may trust me with her secrecy. None shall know of it and no other shall have it." He smiled. "I promise; I shall see it is I who still bears the Ring of Fire when I at last return home."

And finally, Círdan felt the desire to return the smile, for as he heard the words his heart warmed. It was not that he ever doubted Mithrandir, no, but hearing the words still brought about a whole new sense of relief. "I can only imagine how much you anticipate the day of your homecoming," he spoke, the slight smile present still. "And for you I will build a ship, when your heart is set to depart from this land and your duty fulfilled."

Mithrandir stared at him, brow raised, in a rare glimpse of being caught off guard. "What?" he asked, a tad incredulously. "Why would you do such a thing?"

The slender smile grew. "I want to," he answered simply. "I know whither at last you will return, and will see to it that you behold a ship awaiting your arrival to bear you back across so great a sea." He looked up at the stars clustered in droves, his mariner's mind reeling already with designs and calculations as to construct such a masterpiece. "She shall be white," he spoke, his voice soft in longing as he saw her before mind's eye. "So white, so that all planks under the Sun will shine with the light of the Moon. And as a swan her keel will be, narrow in the beam, moored as a gull at the quay with no cast colors, and her trestles about the helm crafted akin to feathers. The rigging should be held on the port, with no reefs. And she shall have one mast, but her sail as of woven tarpaulin, also of white…." Círdan finally seemed to take notice of Mithrandir's amused look, his hidden smile and shook himself, realizing that he had been rambling in quiet words for some moments.

"I apologize," he added, and Mithrandir could contain his laugh no longer. "To be plain, a white ship will be waiting for you. And as for the 'why'…." He gave an absent gesture with his hands. "Accept it as a token of my gratitude, Master, for all you will have then done for Middle-earth. Inadequate as it may be, it is the only show of thanks I could offer, for words would be truly poor."

Mithrandir only studied him in silence, and there was no smile lighting his face. Yet his eyes gleamed with a certain light that took a moment for Círdan to place where he had last seen it; when he had expressed his concern for the Istar's wellbeing aboard his ship. He had been touched, and in his eyes had shone the same heartfelt sentiment. And now his visage was alit with a smile of warmth, and in his eyes was conveyed a sentiment of endearment that could be put into no words.

"Círdan," he then spoke, "no gift you give me could be greater, for I know this gift comes by the love of the furthest depths of your heart and the greatest skill of your hands. And for it, I am honored."

Círdan waved aside the praise. "Be not so, Master, for long has it been since my hands were soft."

Mithrandir smiled and took up his staff once more, planting it firmly to the shingle. "Let us proceed on our walk ere the prints of our feet become permanent."

And so they went forth on their walk south along the shore once more, and the silence between them was once again comfortable and companionable. They trod at leisure on the soft sand of the high watermark, the rim of the high tide sweeping the sand again and again not three meters away. And such was the walk Círdan took every morning ere the Sun rose over the golden city, and as on the times before, he lost himself amid his own thoughts. He knew not how long they continued to walk in their silence, but only when he saw a low-lying buttress of boulders in varying sizes of claystone and siltstone, a hundred meters or so off down the shore, did he realize how far they had gone from the city. Círdan glanced to Mithrandir and saw the fingers of his left hand absently flitting over those of his right. He had done that from time to time, Círdan noticed, and the Shipwright knew that it was just a matter of becoming accustomed to the presence of Narya; he had experienced the same, after all. Though Mithrandir would, with little doubt, overcome the discomfort of a foreign presence far sooner than Círdan did, he doubted that any being aside from the Valar could dismiss Narya's existence so easily. And at the thought of the higher beings, Círdan found the need to speak once more.

"Master Curunír will ever be angered with me for giving you this Ring," he spoke, his voice solemn and low in pitch. "And part of me is wary of his reaction."

Mithrandir glanced up at him, obviously returning from his own thoughts as well. "I will keep it secret, Círdan," he reassured. "None shall know of it, save only those you entrust the knowledge of my bearing her."

And though a little reassured by his words, Círdan still shook his head. "Master Curunír is neither foolish nor blind," he continued wearily. "And I, deep in my being, foresee that he will learn of my giving Narya to you." He shook his head in a rare show of helplessness, dreading the enmity that he knew was to come. "Wise and powerful he is, and my deepest respect and service he has, but whatever friendship I have gained with him will be lost when he learns of my gift."

"You know that not."

Círdan paused and cast Mithrandir a look of forlorn. "No disrespect meant, Master, but I do."

Mithrandir grunted. "And you are willing also to sacrifice such a friendship? Trust me, my friend. Curunír has a soft spot for you and will not dismiss you so readily."

"I am honored for it," Círdan replied, and he truly was. "But this sense of foreboding is not foreign to me. And as I told you once before, Master, my personal peace is irrelevant for the fate Middle-earth."

Mithrandir rolled his eyes skyward, though the slight smile took any sting from the action. "Do you not trust Curunír?"

Círdan nodded without hesitation. "There are few who have my greater trust akin to that I place in Master Curunír. It is greatly evident that he cares for the Hither Lands and worries for the wellbeing of the Free Peoples. And it remains obvious that he will do everything to see the conquest of the Shadow. To put it plainly, I trust him greatly, and will accept his counsel should he ever offer it."

"If you trust him," Mithrandir inquired, "then why did you go out of your way to see that he remains far from our exchange of words this night?"

Círdan flashed him a wry grin, though it never reached his eyes. "I spoke that I trust him greatly, not completely. Long enough I have lived to know that to do so would be foolish, for of him I know little." He grunted. "I can count on one hand the Elves I trust completely."

Mithrandir smiled. "But Curunír is no Elf."

Círdan nodded in consent to the fact. "True, but the Vala Ulmo is really the only one I go to blindly trust."

"A wise choice," Mithrandir murmured, "for not all Maiar can be trusted."

Círdan nodded. "And the truth of such words will be revealed at the end of all things."

Mithrandir rolled his eyes once more. "You are too fatalistic by far."

A ghost of a smile was seen. "Lord Thranduil has accused me of such on more than one occasion, usually accompanied by an annoyed shake of his head. But then," he amended, "he is king of a people who engage in merrymaking at even the smallest of reasons to be joyous, just because they can."

Mithrandir gave a single nod that was too exaggerated to be sincere as a smile played at his lips. "Ah, yes, celebrating at any reason to celebrate. Tantamount that sounds to laugh when there is cause for laughter, and to smile when there is cause to smile, as I believe a certain person advised you of in the not-so-distant past."

To that, Círdan spoke nothing, for he knew he had walked right in to such an opening. But he was drawn from his muse as Mithrandir took hold of his arm and guided him to stand before him. And Círdan was taken aback by the solemn look in Mithrandir's eyes.

"My friend," he spoke, heartfelt in his words, "that the Sight has subdued your joy I know, for which you have no fault. And I understand why, for the Sight, in the end, makes solemn all those who have it. And there are none who can live with it better than you. But take into account the words of Radagast." He gave a short laugh. "I insinuate not that you have done anything wrong, for you have not, but you do need to smile more."

Círdan gave a grudging nod. "I know. Ëarhín loves attempting to amend it."

Mithrandir went to speak and then stopped, for in a quick flash, his eyes flitted over to the right and back again. And a slow smile steadily grew as he took a pace back. "I have outstayed my welcome and to the guesthouse shall return, for I have the need to obtain rest ere the coming of dawn."

Círdan furrowed his brow, his confusion evident. "What do you speak? You have not outstayed your welcome."

Mithrandir shook his head good-naturedly and gestured with his staff over Círdan's shoulder.

And the most peaceful sense of déjà vu overcame Círdan in the moment that he turned at Mithrandir's bidding, for along the distant shore amongst the siltstone boulders was the shadow of a figure, tall and broad, and from him emanated a light so ethereal that it could only be from one of the higher power. And upon perusing the shadow, Círdan began to make out more detail under the light of the stars and Moon, and the Shipwright felt a small smile crease his face as he recognized Ossë, clad in his translucent raiment of hues of blue, with his hair, dark as midnight, wafting around his shoulders in the ocean breeze.

But the sense of déjà vu came not from the welcoming sight of the vassal of Ulmo, but rather that the Maia was sitting upon a rock, an arm resting on his knee as he was casually anchored back on the smooth boulder on which he sat. For in the time of his youth, Círdan and the Falmari had flocked towards Ossë as sheep towards their shepherd, eager to learn all the more sea-lore and sea-music that the Master of the Seas had to offer in the hundred years that they had waited upon the shore. And as silent students, beneath the countless stars in the heavens, they had listened in delight as Ossë had taught them all manner of their craft. And always when he had spoken or sung, he had ever sat upon his rock.

In the same manner as he was doing now, much to Círdan's amusement, for he wondered if the Maia chose that position on purpose, and a moment later decided that he did. And in that moment, Círdan knew that Mithrandir was correct; their time was up, for Ossë came never upon the shores of the Havens without a purpose. And so, Círdan turned back to Mithrandir and bowed to him in the exact manner as he had when the Istari had first boarded the _Fëagaer_.

"I bid you a good evening, Master, and will see you come morning ere you depart."

Mithrandir returned the slight bow and simply grasped Círdan's shoulder for a long moment. "One more thing, Círdan. And I have little time to tell you, so I will be blunt," he spoke gravely. "More Istari are coming. We three are but chiefs among them, and Curunír is our Chieftain. Two more Istari, both clad in blue, shall arrive soon, also chiefs. More Istari besides will come also, but keep an eye on the horizon for those two clad in blue, for they will wish to speak with you ere they depart."

Círdan nodded. "I will do so. Do I know them?"

Mithrandir smiled. "You do, from long ago, I believe. Do you remember Alatar and Pallando?"

Círdan stared at him, a delighted smile slowly lighting his face. "Are you serious?" he murmured.

Mithrandir chuckled at the mixed look of surprise and joy in Círdan's eyes. "Aye, I am serious, my friend. So keep an eye out for them, for as I spoke, they wish to speak with you again."

"I shall," Círdan absently said. A sense of exhilaration raced through him, as well as disbelief. He had not laid sight on those two Maiar since the dawn of his youth, for Alatar and Pallando were the servants of the Vala Oromë. And during some of the times the Lord of Forests had come to visit the Quendi in their home of the Wild Wood about the Waters of Cuiviénen, his two Maiar had accompanied him. And since the Elves' journey of the Great March after Melkor's imprisonment, Círdan had seen neither hide nor hair of them, to his sorrow. And now they were coming as the final two chiefs of the Istari, bound with the same duty. To say that he was now excited that he would see them again, after all these Ages, was a gross understatement.

Realizing that his mind had drifted off again, this time into good memories, Círdan looked back into Mithrandir's amused gaze and bowed his head once more. "I shall," he repeated. "Good night, Master."

Mithrandir glanced at Ossë. "Good luck," he whispered in jest, and then he turned to amble back down the long stretch of coastline.

Círdan watched him go for only a moment before he turned and approached Ossë, who simply watched him come forth, fiddling a long shred of abalone shell between his fingers.

"My lord," he greeted as he came to stand a meter from the rock. "Have you something new to teach me?" he added in amusement.

Ossë gracefully stood from the rock, tossing the shell into the water that swept about their feet, and his raiment seemed to float around him instead of being lifted by the breeze. "Always there is something more to learn, Círdan, no matter how old one may be."

Círdan nodded, but he recognized that Ossë was stalling. Even more, to Círdan's alarm, Ossë would not meet his eyes, and instead kept their lightning hue cast out to the sea. And he was grave, not that he wasn't grave in time passed, Círdan amended, but a solemn – almost sad – air seemed to hang about him. Aye, Ossë was a sporadic figure and the most unpredictable being he had ever met, but this was unusual, even for him.

"My lord," he asked, cautious with his words. "What is wrong? Why have you come?"

And now Ossë did look at him, and Círdan had to force himself not to retreat from the ferocity of the gaze. That his eyes blazed as lightning helped not, either. But when he spoke, his voice, which could rise to the tremor of thunder, was as placid as the water of a pond.

"I know what is wrong," Ossë calmly spoke. "But do you know what is wrong? For I sense that you evade the thoughts, even fears, that insist on emerging to the forefront of your mind." He cocked his head ever so slightly to the side, strands of dark hair wafting languorously about his face, but his eyes did not leave Círdan's. "Tell me, Círdan; what is wrong?"

And Círdan closed his eyes, knowing that Ossë had struck the truth, and had struck it hard. It was seldom often that Ossë could interpret Círdan's thoughts so easily as Ulmo. But then, he had ever granted Ulmo access to his mind and being, leaving nothing hidden. Only a few times in the past he had allowed the same of Ossë, but granted such personal permission seldom. It was not that he did not trust Ossë, for he did, but as he had told Mithrandir, Ulmo was the only one he trusted blindly and completely with everything, for there was nothing of or about him that the Vala knew not. But Ossë had known him well for over fourteen millennia; therefore, it was unsurprising that he could guess Círdan's thoughts now. But what was a surprise was that he knew them so accurately.

And Círdan felt a shame well up inside him, and why he felt shame, of all things, he knew not. It felt as a betrayal to Ossë, in a large way, for upon speaking to the Maia once more, Círdan could not help but to recall everything, every single word, that Mithrandir had spoken aboard the _Fëagaer_ about him; that he had turned to darkness, to the allegiance of Morgoth, in the desire for power. Círdan had always had a kindred love for Ossë, and did still this moment, but now, in the worst of ways, it felt to be tainted by all he now knew. And he hated himself for thinking such, for as he had expressed to Mithrandir, Ossë was loyal beyond understanding, to Ulmo and to everything the Valar stood for.

Realizing that Ossë still waited in patience for an answer, Círdan bowed his head and spoke. "Amid the voyage, Mithrandir spoke of the creation of Arda. And in his words, he mentioned of how you had once turned to darkness."

He dared not to speak more, but in the silence that followed, Círdan looked up to find Ossë nodding, his solemn gaze once more cast out at the sea.

"I know," he finally spoke. "Upon the passage of the waves, Ulmo had sent word to me of what was spoken, not a moment after Olórin had told you. And amid the boundaries of the Hither Shores I dwelt, hearing every detail of just how much he told you: of how I desired for power, what was promised as my reward, how that traitor deceived me, and how I was summoned to my King. How the hand of Morgoth 'passed beyond the servants of his will.'" Ossë glanced at him. "Have I forgotten anything?"

Círdan grimaced, shaking his head. Ossë's recounting of all that had been said (word for word, to his dismay) made him a tad more nervous – Ossë had an unpredictable, wild temper, after all, that could rage uncontrolled to a terrifying level. But Círdan could not decipher what it was that Ossë now thought. No expression could be seen on his visage, no emotion of anger or resentment. There was simply nothing, and Círdan wondered if Ossë maintained such a mask deliberately.

"And what say you?" Ossë asked, and no emotion was heard in his voice.

Círdan hesitated, unable to know what words to speak, and he cast out his gaze to the sea as well. "I know not what to say."

"Have you hate for me now?"

Círdan's gaze snapped back over to Ossë, shock he had felt seldom before shooting through him. Was such what Ossë now worried about, now feared? That he hated him, even by a little? Such a concept was so foreign unto Círdan's mind that he could simply not picture Ossë, violent and tempestuous as he was, caring about something as trivial as that. Ossë was sure to be used to such negative thoughts, after all, for nigh on every Elf Círdan knew was positively terrified of the Maia (not that Ossë ever desired to mend that, one should add). The vassal, also, had a rather large tendency to find enjoyment by making sailors' lives miserable while out at sea. As he had told Mithrandir, Círdan had never known why Ossë found such delight in violence until he had learned what a large part Morgoth had played in it. Ossë was generally disliked and greatly feared, and most probably hated by some. So again, one would think he were used to it.

But upon such thoughts, Círdan felt his heart warm as he recalled the words Ëarhín had spoken when he had first set out not so long ago: _Out of all here, you are his favorite Elf, Círdan. There is no denying that_. While it remained true that Círdan was not the only olden friend of the Maia, all the other Elves Ossë had befriended were gone, either through death or their leaving to Eldamar. Elves he would probably never again be able to see, for he was bound to the waters of the Hither Lands for only the Valar knew how long. And Círdan was touched beyond words that Ossë now feared the Shipwright thought ill of him, that their friendship may have, indeed, been tainted.

"No, Master," he spoke, making certain that the sincerity of the words were heard. "Aye, I was more than surprised at what I heard, but I have no ill thought of you. All beings make mistakes. Besides, you not only turned to darkness – you also turned away from it."

But Ossë only nodded again. "I know, and I have no shame in admitting my error. But I sense your discomfort, my friend. You fear that such betrayal may happen again."

"No," Círdan retorted. "I do not fear such."

"Then what do you fear?" Ossë turned back to look at him, his gaze curious and bright.

Círdan fell silent once more, having no notion of what to speak. Instead he just sighed. "I know not, Master, I truly do not," he said. "Such knowledge rendered me speechless and I believe I am trying to overcome it still. I know in my heart that you shall err not in the same way again, for such is beyond you. It is just…." He shrugged, meek in his conviction. "It is difficult to look at you without remembering, to see you under the same light as before."

His chin was uplifted by Ossë's long fingers and he found himself staring into Ossë's unblinking eyes of a fiery potency. "Too well I know you to be deceived, Círdan, even if you yourself are deceived by your confusion." He released Círdan's chin, but still held fast his gaze, and the Shipwright found it impossible to tear it away.

"I kept it silent from all for two purposes," he spoke, the swell of the ocean waves growing and lessening with the rise and fall of his voice. "It was not of the right of any to know, and two, it was the moment of my existence that I would trade anything to do again. But alas, the past is set and binding to all. As you know, upon my treachery, the Valar intervened, and by Ulmo my judgment was cast."

Círdan had committed to speaking no words when Ossë had first spoken, for he felt that any words he could possibly speak would have been either inadequate or ill-founded. Besides, he knew not what to say, anyway. He heard the subtle agony in the Maia's voice at the abysmal failure he had committed. And Círdan had not a sliver of doubt that Ossë would truly have given anything to again relive that time – that split moment – when he had said yes to Morgoth. To but say a completely different word to Morgoth's offer. And Círdan felt a sense of sympathy towards Ossë; he knew the Maia was as loyal as they came and that the Valar trusted him as any other, but Círdan could begin not to even contemplate the guilt and shame Ossë had to live with still. And Círdan feared that Ossë would probably never recall that, despite turning to darkness, he had actually turned away from it. But now, at Ossë's closing words, he felt his confusion grow.

"Judgment?" he asked. "I was told that your crimes had been pardoned."

"They were," he said calmly, "and I am forever grateful for the mercy bequeathed unto me by Ulmo and Manwë. But I would never have expected of Ulmo to allow me to go about freely after that event."

The confusion grew. "What are you talking about?" Círdan inquired, curious to know. Ossë looked at Círdan for a long moment, his gaze penetrating, and the Shipwright startled as he felt the Maia brush his mind. But Ossë went no further and instead directed Círdan's gaze down to the wrists he now held forward. And after a moment's hesitation, Círdan looked down and studied his wrists. There was nothing different to be noticed; Ossë's hands were strong and well corded, his fingers long, and his wrists were enwrapped in their raiment of shimmering blues. But ere Círdan could comment, Ossë took hold of the raiment and worked with it until, on both wrists, it was slowly folded and rolled back. And Círdan saw what he had never seen the likes of before.

Ossë's wrists were bound, though by what substance Círdan had no idea. The bands that stretched a handbreadth over each wrist looked to be composed of the shattered shells one would find strewn across the shoreline. They were a mess, in a way, a collage of broken pieces, but they still passed beyond the description of beautiful, for they shone with a coat of dust like starlight, and shimmered in an ethereal way under the light of the Moon. But they shone with a blinding brilliance that Círdan had never before seen in his life. The beauty of the bonds was breathtaking, but Círdan could not overcome the fact that they were still bonds.

"Shackles?" Círdan whispered, disbelief coating the single word.

Ossë tilted his head, studying the bonds himself. "In a way, I suppose."

"The Vala Ulmo bound you in shackles?" Círdan was incredulous. He knew that Ulmo was firm and unconquerable in spirit, but he could not believe him capable of an action such as this, as binding his own vassal in manacles. It was just not conceivable.

Ossë appeared to interpret his thoughts, for he said, "Think not ill of him, Círdan, for I asked him to. At first, he refused, but I went to my knees and pled. Ulmo knew I would never again repeat my errors of old, but I in turn had to believe it, also. And such belief I doubted would come unless I were reminded for all time.

"And thus," he continued, "Ulmo put forth his hands and crafted the bonds by shell of the uttermost depth of his Waters. And about the remnants of the shells he cast a light taken from the Lamps of the Valar. And from the words of his mouth, he cast upon the bonds a binding so powerful that none can break it, save him. Then he summoned me hither and commanded me to hold forth my hands. And about my wrists he cast the bonds, sealing them shut with further words from his mouth.

"And bound I have hitherto remained, and henceforth shall remain, until Ulmo removes them by his own hand, for only he is enabled with the power to break the seal of my 'shackles'." Ossë looked down into Círdan's nearly aghast gaze and smiled. "By my King's command, I am entrusted with the governing of the Hither Shores, as you well know."

Círdan nodded.

"I am permitted to travel about the Waters of Ulmo, for all waters are under his government. But to his Waters I am bound so long as these fetters encase my wrists. And his Waters I cannot leave." His smile grew. "Despair not for me, my friend," he reassured. "Of Ulmo I beseeched of this binding, and have never yet regretted it."

Círdan shook his head, feeling himself sway where he stood at this revelation. He did as Ossë said and despaired not, yet he could help not but to feel aghast at what he heard. "But he still bound you in shackles."

Ossë claimed his attention as he took hold of Círdan's chin once more. "No, Círdan," he spoke firmly. "These bonds are not shackles, but a reminder. A reminder of whom I serve, where my allegiance lies, and to never again be swayed by the temptations of the Darkness." The smile returned. "Ulmo granted me a favor and remember always; I begged him for it."

As Círdan thought upon the words of Ossë, the bordering-on-horrified astonishment slowly faded away, for it was then that Círdan realized how much Ossë's crime of treachery must have personally struck him. He had been so terrified of erring in even the smallest way again that he had gone to the last resort and pleaded of Ulmo to confine him to the Waters, meaning that he would ever be under the supervision of his King. Even more so, he had worded his plea exactly so that, not only would he be bound, but that he would remain so until only Ulmo and no other saw fit to release him of it. Ulmo _had_ been doing Ossë a favor, Círdan realized, for by binding him to his Waters, he had freed Ossë of his deeply-instilled fear. It was a pity, Círdan wryly thought, that it had not also freed Ossë of his delight in violence. Or his temper.

And Círdan felt a smile touch his lips, for, without realizing it, Ossë's words had calmed him beyond imagine. He knew not why and knew not if he ever would, but Círdan finally felt a sense of peace about him when he thought of Ossë's "mishap".

And he looked at Ossë now, the smile growing as it reached his eyes. "I know now what I think," he said. "I think you are incredible."

Ossë raised a mischievous eyebrow. "Try not to soften me up," he warned. "It will do you no good. I still say your ship has shortcomings."

Círdan rolled his eyes and found enjoyment in the next few moments of silence. But before long, he spoke once more. "Do you believe I did the right thing?"

"Giving Narya to Olórin?"

Círdan nodded.

"That is not for me to say," Ossë replied ever so helpfully. "Though more than you I know what lays in the coming for Middle-earth, I am permitted not to see all ends. Questions asked may never have an answer. But for what it is worth," he added at Círdan's brief show of disappointment, "I believe you did. Not mainly because it is Olórin who bears the Noldorin craft, but because you have been released of the burden."

Círdan had a sudden flash of inspiration. They were being honest with one another, correct? Círdan had by now given up on the hope of ever knowing, but mayhap it was worth one more attempt. "Master, what happened on that voyage?"

A smile played at the corners of Ossë's mouth. "I know not what you speak of."

Círdan sighed in exasperation. "Please, Ossë, I am at the end of my patience with this."

Ossë studied him for another long moment. "What is it you cannot understand?"

Círdan narrowed his eyes. "You know exactly what I cannot understand: four months, two days, my simply failing to remember why it is possible, being put into a deep sleep, and it not being a dream." He shook his head wearily. "And that is the most confusing for me, for it all appears to point to being a dream."

"Why do you say that?" Ossë asked.

Círdan gestured in a show of frustration. "There is no evidence even present that I had gone on such a voyage in the first place. There was no food, but I had eaten from the supplement that Ulmo had provided. The mast – hewn by your lovely little wave, thank you very much – looks no different than when I first departed. The lantern I had even set upon the forepeak is no longer there, but then, Mithrandir had returned it beneath deck. So much more could be said, but there is just no evidence to my people that I had even left."

Ossë narrowed his eyes and Círdan bore the calculating scrutiny with an air of long-sufferance. "What?"

Ossë straightened and clasped his hands before him, all previous jollity vanishing like smoke in the wind. "Hear my words and obey them, Círdan," he spoke. "Return to the heart of your city and make for the quay where the _Fëagaer_ is moored. Though at this late hour all people should be resting, be certain that there is no person present. And when you are certain, step aboard your ship once more."

Círdan stared at him, waiting for more words, but none came. "Why?"

"Just do it." Ossë nodded towards the stretch of shoreline behind him. "Go now and do as I say."

Círdan looked at Ossë for a moment longer until the Maia gestured for him to leave. And so Círdan did, turning his back to Ossë and walking back along the soft sand towards home, absently thinking once more that Ulmo and Ossë found making him confused as some form of enjoyment. He strode perhaps only twenty meters when he was stopped.

"Círdan!"

Círdan turned back at the sound of Ossë's voice. Upon where Ossë stood, the wind had grown stronger, blowing the sand about the Maia's bare feet and whipping his raiment and hair wildly about him. But Círdan looked only into Ossë's bright eyes, alarmed by the concern he saw within them. "My lord?"

"Círdan," he called again, "prepare your heart, and be sure it is strong ere you step aboard the ship."

And though vague as the words had been, Círdan took them to heart and prepared himself in a way as he had been forced to do many times before; a certain resolve that readied one to accept anything, whether it'd be great or horrendous. As a lone figure, he ambled back along the shore, his footfalls disturbing the soft sand very little, his pace one of leisure and his heart, for the most part, content. And at his closing distance from the city, Círdan took a long moment to be amazed at how more alive in body and mind he felt now that Narya was no longer upon his finger. For the primordial Shipwright, it was, in short, a miracle, and one of which he would never have dreamt.

Upon his entrance, nothing within the city stirred. And Círdan looked out towards the West and caught sight of the ever-present glow of the northern beacon, blazing bright. And, like a white wraith, the Shipwright passed through the southern streets, inaudible on the cobblestones. Despite Ossë's cautioning words, save for the guards stationed on the watch, he met no person on his swift walk to the harbor, the forests of masts swaying to the tide and their timber and cordage creaking and moaning with the wind. The soles of his boots lightly echoed as he walked the length of the southern dock, to where his ship was moored at the last bollard, the mooring lines gently stretching and slacking with the motion of the water. And Círdan stood there for a moment upon the quay, studying his ship, suddenly nervous with the anticipation of what he was supposed to find upon boarding. But he forsook the pointless wait and stepped through the entry port.

And Círdan stood over the centerline towards the bow, casting about his gaze, but expecting to see nothing. What, after all, was there to see? As he had described to Ossë, the _Fëagaer_ looked as if he had never voyaged her at all. At a slow pace, he walked down the centerline, a path made narrower by the oars resting parallel along the rowing benches. The two vats of salt-extracted water for drinking were roped and secured still to the deck, their lids sealed, with no evidence of having been opened. The mast, as he passed it, was as perfect as it could be, something he had no complaint for. The bail bucket he had used as an improvised container to hold his meal of shellfish was back in its rightful place, beneath one of the rowing benches nearby the stern. But it was at that moment as he neared the stern and looked casually towards the last couple starboard-side rear-rowing benches that he saw it, right where Mithrandir had placed it; hidden beneath the dark shadow cast by the bulwark that it was snuggled against rested the sheen oyster shell and, inside it, the pearl from Ulmo's girdle.

Círdan's breath caught at the sight of it, and he found himself capable now of only staring at it. Valar, he had forgotten about the kingly gift completely. And he felt shame well up inside at the fact, for how could that have been so? Rationally, he knew the guilt was unfounded; ever since he had awoken to Radagast's pounding on the helmsman's door, his mind had been set only on safe voyaging. And upon mooring at the quay, his attention had been taken by something far more drastic. But the shell and pearl had rested out of sight, hidden in the shadows cast by the bulwark. Círdan studied the pearl now, that great sense of humility compressing his chest. And, despite the Vala's absence, the Shipwright felt that almost irresistible desire to kneel. But there the pearl sat, plain and unadorned, but never more breathtaking in its beauty and majesty. For this was a pearl from the rope of Ulmo, a gift worthy of a king. And no matter the words spoken by Ulmo, Círdan had still never felt so unworthy of it.

He sat on the bench adjacent to that the shell rested on and hesitated before reaching out to take hold of the pearl, for he recalled Mithrandir's words: _I will tell you that you are to touch neither shell nor pearl, not until I am no longer aboard the Fëagaer_. And as he had spoken, so it now was. In a bemused sense, he remembered his frustration upon being told to touch not the shell, but now he recognized the truth for what it was. For if he found the restraint against such a temptation – and what a temptation it had been – Mithrandir would have been assured that he would maintain that same restraint with the pearl. Círdan had done as requested and now put it off no longer.

Círdan reached out, clasped his fingers about the pearl and held it close. For only a moment, nothing happened. And all Círdan could register in that time was how warm the pearl was to touch, how it still shone with the brightness of the Moon with its white-hued colors of a setting Sun. But then the moment was over, for something then happened that Círdan had no expectation of.

He felt a jolt shoot through him, making his heart pound harder, as his breath was taken from him once more. His mind became clouded with a sense of opacity as his vision gave way, and he swayed alarmingly where he sat. He closed his eyes tight and clutched the pearl close to his chest. And Círdan barely registered what happened as he collapsed to the deck of the ship, his strength deserting him, for his mind was now far removed from the world of the mundane.

The Great Music in the Waters resonated in his ear, but above the Valarin words Sung in harmony, he heard the music of Ulmo come forth as the greatest. Círdan heard the deep rumble of the ocean and the rolling of the waves, and in little to no time, his heart went to beat in harmony with it once more. But the Shipwright had seldom time to register it, for he was being dwarfed by what he had felt aboard his ship, when Ulmo had embraced him to his chest; _healing_. Only it was not the same. This was now but a shred, a glimpse of the powerful touch of Ulmo's spirit, of his invasion into the mind and soul, of his healing of all wounds inflicted. No healing now occurred, but every emotion that had raged through him in the helmsman's quarters as he had been held against the Vala's deep chest now soared through him once more, unrelenting and unending. But such pain and euphoria was not all.

The pearl…it was no normal pearl, and not because it came only from Ulmo's mighty girdle. It awoke in him a longing he had felt never before. A longing to once again stand in the presence of the Vala, for Círdan's heart ached miserably at his absence. And he felt the solitude bitterly. Despite his fear and respect of the Vala, Círdan desired to walk with him again, to be on his knees before him. He heard the Sea calling him, to go out and drift amongst the Music. Aye, that was what it was; the calling of the Sea. But not the calling home to Eldamar, no, for he had heard not the blow of Ulmo's horn, the sound that would awake in his heart the longing to cross the Sea to Aman. No. This calling upon his heart was of the Sea alone, summoning him home, though of what home he now desired, he knew not….He was being called home, but not to Valinor. Where was home, then, if not the West? But, above all in that moment, he craved to see the King of the Seas once more while voyaging the seas. And Círdan felt anguish wash over him as he recognized that he would never know when such a time might come again. A day, a year, a century, or several millennia….Círdan would never know if or when Ulmo would come forth to speak with him again.

And the raging swell of emotions finally settled to at least be bearable. And Círdan opened his eyes and looked above, his gaze unseeing and body depleted still of strength. So upon the deck Círdan simply laid, staring up at the stars, his thoughts in turmoil, but he never released the pearl from his hand.

Hours passed. The Moon set. All was silent and, through the cloudless sky, only the light of the stars illuminated Círdan's chiseled, olden visage. And it was then Círdan realized, as he still laid upon the deck, that Ulmo had gifted him with far more than a pearl from his girdle, for the pearl itself was not inanimate, but rather a remnant of Ulmo's spirit. As he held the mighty sea-gem, he heard Ulmo's voice, his song, and he felt an entity within his soul akin to the Vala's presence. As he held the pearl, his mind and soul fell into harmony with the sea by his side. As he held the pearl, he heard within his heart the call of the Sea and the welcoming resonation of the Great Music. As he held the pearl, he felt at peace.

And so it was aboard the ship Círdan remained, lying upon the deck out of the sight of all, and the Shipwright knew not how many hours had passed. But as he gazed up at the stars of Elbereth, he watched the stars wield overhead, far more bright from the absent light of the Moon. And a genuine, actual smile touched his countenance. This night was perfect. Despite all the questions unanswered that he knew not would ever be answered, this night was truly unspoiled. He had been blessed by the Vala Ulmo through the gift of his pearl. He had been granted a promise of peace and an everlasting calling of the Sea. He had not failed the Valar and their task set upon him, to welcome the Istari to Middle-earth. And he had accomplished his own personal goal to provide some sort of aid to the Istari, be it great or small. He had learned all there really was to know of Ossë, Master of the Seas.

But above all, above all the welcoming factors of this night, only one reigned; he had been freed from a burden that he had long ago accepted with dread that he would either take with him across the Sea, or with him to his grave. Narya was safe and secret, and would remain so. And she was with a wise being who shall wield her well and bring about some good of her existence. And, truly more than anything, Narya was no longer upon his finger. In short, it was a miracle. Mayhap this night, he would find the strength within to actually sleep with his eyes open. For once, just maybe. And though upon the rising of the Sun, where the new day would bring about for Círdan more problems and frustrations and confusions, the Shipwright allowed his heart to rest in peace. For in this night, for but a moment, he was content.

To be continued….

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><p><strong>Notice:<strong> The next chapter is the last one, and please take note that the end of *this* chapter was the _end of the flashback_. We'll be going back to the present with Elrond and Glorfindel (remember them from way back when?) at the start of Ch. 10. And for those who have the story on your Alert list (thank you for that), know that, when it gives you the word count of the chapter, it won't be as long as it says. Remember, I'm including all my sources at the very end, so the story itself will be shorter, at least by a little.

**A/N:** Just really quickly, I want to comment on the bit about Círdan saying that Saruman will hate him for giving Narya to Mithrandir. It said in _Unfinished Tales_ that, when Saruman found out about Narya (Mithrandir said nothing to him, but Saruman was too wise to be deceived), he hated – and I mean _hated_ – Mithrandir for it from there on out, and despised him since he had been given a Ring of Power. So one can only imagine what he felt towards Círdan. And in some accounts, it says that it was at that moment, when Saruman learned of Mithrandir bearing Narya, that Saruman's desire for power for the One Ring began. So in a way, it's all Círdan's fault! :) The next chapter will find us what both Elrond and Glorfindel think of this whole tale, and the remaining questions of why Círdan had been tested and just what he is supposed to remember will be answered (I know, finally). Until then, reviews are very encouraging and helpful. So feel free to hit that little blue link below! :) Until then…au revoir!


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** for full disclaimer, please see Chapter 1.

**A/N:** And here it is; the final chapter…and over three months later. *shakes head* I don't know if I should even try to apologize, simply because of how stupid and empty it would sound. But for the sake of courtesy, I will apologize for the ridiculously long wait – I am very sorry. No outrageous excuse, since I hate reading such excuses, but I am sorry. But at least this is the last chapter (and longest). And I would be very honored if you would stick with it a while longer to read it. Words can't express how much I would appreciate it. I would like to thank **Lia Whyteleafe**, **GreenGreatDragon**, **WiseQueen**, **Zammy**, **Sadie Sil – English Stories**, and **Certh** for all your wonderful reviews.

**Notice:** Don't try to figure out what I'm talking about because you'll only confuse yourself, just know that, when you come to it in the story, the location of "Ulmonan" is not my own invention; it is a real, canonical place and is listed in the Sources. And remember, the flashback has ended and we are now back in the present.

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><p>"People tend to believe that a preposterous story must be true – precisely because it is so unlikely." ~ John Flanagan, <em>Ranger's<em> _Apprentice_

**Chapter 10**

_Mithlond, 1001 TA_

Círdan let go a small sigh and peered for a long, hard moment at both of his companions before him. "Now you have heard my words," he finished quietly. "Draw from it as you will, though I pray, leave me be on if my mind and spirit were laid to rest, but for a day amid my ship, whilst she drifted out amongst the Sea."

A deafening silence fell amid the ship, a silence that impressed far more significance than any jumble of words could have. Not even a word was uttered, and all to be heard was the soft creaking of the _Fëagaer_'s hull as she swayed to the gentle current of the rolling waves. The bright Moon had long ago set, and the full glory of the multitude of stars was veiled by the heavy clouds that had gathered, signifying the coming storm, for rolling thunder could be heard off in the far distance. Their source of light solely emitted from the silver glow their delicate lanterns casted, making the atmosphere on the ship seem eerily ethereal; a rather appropriate conjecture after all they had discussed.

But the thoughts of Elrond's mind were rampant, and he truly had no notion of what to say. The wonder he had felt at hearing Círdan's words still remained immense and prominent, leaving him speechless. Several times he exchanged a fleeting glance with Glorfindel, only to find the same tumble of emotions and thoughts in the Elda's eyes. But the Half-elf looked back to Círdan, making an effort to think of something, anything, to say. But Círdan, with his admirable patience, merely sat there, waiting, looking between the two of them and the bay surrounding them. And for several moments, Elrond could do naught but stare at the gunwale, though his eyes were focused on anything but.

"Say something."

Elrond's attention snapped back to Círdan, and he regarded the Shipwright in a manner of sympathy and self-annoyance, for his healer's eyes took notice of how his elder more and more often blinked with evident weariness. Hours had passed and Elrond could only imagine just how exhausted Círdan had to be by now.

But Glorfindel took care of the matter, leaning back with an astounded sigh, letting fall a hand on each leg. He smiled at Círdan, bright and merry, though he shook his head in disbelief. "Such a tale seems to have raised more a question than it did answer," he spoke, a smile still lurking.

But Círdan only nodded, albeit grudgingly, as though he had had that thought many a time already. "I know," he spoke in his familiar, rurally idyllic way. "A year has since passed, and this night I sit speaking myself hoarse, only to be no nearer to answering that I remain lost to."

Elrond had to inwardly smile at that. For as far back as he could recall Círdan had never been the most loquacious of persons, for he was always quite the opposite on all occasions. But upon the infrequent occurrence when the old Elf did speak for hours on end, he reminded the Half-elf of when the Shipwright had used to tell tales to his brother and he as children, one child snuggled on each leg, and turning swiftly and unknowingly into what he had heard humans call a 'grandfatherly' figure; speaking in words rugged and solemn, yet warm and soft.

"What wish you us to say?" Elrond deigned finally to ask, releasing a deep breath as though to shake himself out of his own wonder. "Such a tale incurs not many words to speak about it."

Círdan turned a long stare on first Glorfindel and then Elrond, his face inscrutable. "Believe you I erred in giving Narya away?"

Elrond raised an eyebrow, not bothering to smother his surprise at the question. "Believe you that you were?"

Círdan gave a slight, noncommittal tilt of his head. "None know everything," he spoke. "Taking action means not you are without doubt. Both of you know well I trust your counsel, such is why I seek it." He paused, deep in thought, oblivious to the two expectant gazes on him. But Círdan was nodding slow affirmation, as though answering a quandary deep in his own mind. "In the end, nevertheless, I judge I acted for the good, for the Song has changed. In my blood I can feel it, and in the waves hear it. Ever since first the Istari walked this hither land and over it traversed now for a year, I can so sense a different resonance within the Tune, one unmarked but manifest; a change within the Song entirely, though for the better I deem."

Elrond did his best to let not one emotion shine through his countenance. As an Elf, he was as much attuned to the Song of Ilúvatar as the next, able to sense it in the life around him and, on the rare occasion, hear it with a pristine clarity, whether within the waterfalls about Imladris or in the occasional tree-song. Bound to Arda as all Elves were, Elrond was more attuned to the World than any mortal could be, and Glorfindel even more so, for in his rebirth he was divinely manifest, more so than any other Elf in Middle-earth to this day. And that on top of being blessed through witnessing the Light of the Two Trees amid their full glory empowered him to take notice and be cognizant with the Song far better than Elrond and a majority of Elves. And such a gift had its great uses.

But Círdan was of a different matter entirely. He had never seen the Light of the Two Trees, never set foot on the shores of the Uttermost West, living his life as ordinarily as the next. And yet he could hear the Song with pure clarity – not occasionally, but constantly – better than any living Elf possibly could. And it was not only that, for he also understood it; understood the story it unraveled and the messages it carried, a language foreign to him. At some points Elrond was uncertain whether to feel more awed by the manifestation or disturbed by it. If Círdan declared that the tune of the Song had changed since the Istari's arrival, then it was certain that it most probably had. Elrond himself was incapable of detecting such a happenstance, and judging by Glorfindel's lightly bewildered expression, the same could be said of him. Elrond could neither sense nor hear anything. But then again, Círdan had been so bound to the World far longer than any other, and Elrond deduced that such a bond grew and strengthened over time akin to how his own bond with Celebrían grew and deepened over the centuries. But the walking display Círdan made of a surreal mind and spirit trapped in a body sometimes made him a tad envious.

Saving himself from looking as a mute idiot, he collected himself and finally responded. "If you so speak that a note in the Song has changed, I believe you. And in answer to your question, I say as before; aye, my friend. I am content with you giving Narya to this Mithrandir, and I believe it a decision wisely made." He gave a soft smile. "Little time though I spent with him, I could feel the warmth and eagerness of his spirit. And despite my lack of understanding, I sense within my being that he will come to make a great enemy of Sauron."

Glorfindel nodded at the words, a light chuckle emerging from deep in his chest. "How appropriate to give him the Ring of Fire, for you can easily sense the flame that burns bright within him."

Círdan studied them both for a while longer before briefly closing his eyes. "Then I am content."

But Elrond cocked his head, his eyes narrowed in something of amused curiosity. "And still, you elect not to speak of all the conversation we all know you left out of the telling? Indeed, I find it greatly difficult to believe that you four would remain silent on so long a journey. You and those three _Men_ must have discussed something of interest."

The amusement returned as a glimpse of humor, for a brief moment, shone bright in Círdan's primordial eyes. "I so still elect," he spoke lightly with a hint of a smile. "As much as I deign to do otherwise, I have my orders to be silent, as you well know, and to such words none can countermand."

Elrond let go another sigh as he absently began to shake his head once more in disbelief, leaning along the bulwark beside him. "I know, and I would not have you go against it. But still…."

Círdan cocked his head to the side, soft strands of silver hair wafting about his face and his eyes narrowing in a familiar look of interest and amused confusion. "You seem struck with wonder, young one. Why, I ask? Surely, my tale was not so wondrous in the telling that it leaves you searching for words."

Elrond just looked at him, uncertain as to whether regard him with incredulous disbelief or to start laughing. Another glance was exchanged with the golden-haired Elda and Glorfindel merely waved a mockingly imperious hand in Elrond's direction, clearly electing him as the spokesman. Elrond lightly scowled at him before turning back to face Círdan's questioning and expectant eyes, their sharpness and intensity once more piercing him.

Elrond sighed, working vainly to organize his wayward thoughts. "Círdan, it is not your tale that leaves me in shock," he began, slowly and with extra caution in choosing his words. "Indeed so, it is unlike anything I have heard, yet I believe you. Have no doubt in that. Many strange things have happened in the World and such as you described is no exception." He smiled at Círdan's unreadable gaze that remained patiently trained on him. Such would make it seem that he did not care or was skeptical of all he heard, but Elrond knew better, for Círdan was family to him in every way but blood. "You are mighty among the Wise, and never does one discount that. If you know well in your heart that the voyage happened, nothing could make me believe otherwise. Aye, questions remain and some may never be answered, yet long ago you told me that some things are meant to remain hidden."

Círdan gave a good-natured roll of his eyes in apparent exasperation. "I wish people would stop reminding me of what I say," he grumbled. He looked back at Elrond, locking his gaze with his own. "What so then bothers you, Elrond? You seem disturbed."

Elrond inwardly grimaced, though some sign of his disquiet must have shown through his countenance, for he caught sight of the slight furrowing of Círdan's brow, concern alight in his eyes. "Ulmo," he spoke, the one word speaking more of his thoughts than any multitude of words. And Elrond slowly shook his head in amazement, that wonder coming to gradually engulf him once more. "Valar, Círdan," he breathed in incredulity. "You only told me that you sometimes communicate with him. I recall well my youth on Balar and how, every so often, you would leave alone to walk about the Isle, only to return with some further knowledge and message from the Sea. But _never_ did you indicate just how deep….Never could I have conceived…."

Elrond fell silent while abandoning all attempts to explain how he felt through words alone, for the Shipwright's account had gone beyond his expectations into incredulous disbelief. Indeed, he was unable to, for never before had he known any of all that had transpired between him and the King of the Seas, of all beings. And Círdan's descriptions of their interaction, all detailed aplenty, went entirely against the renowned character of the Mariner Elrond had always known, for his mind was incapable of conceiving Círdan being so willingly submissive to anyone, be he a Vala or no, as the Shipwright had obtained all but the coldness of a hard heart over the Ages.

Now, he might as well have stood as a stranger before the Half-elf, mind and personality unknown in place of his graceful, abnormal sense of quiet composure and calm that belied the unyielding resolve beheld in his keen, ancient eyes. There were seldom few he might have respected and admired as he did Círdan; the Elf had lived to witness nigh on every kingdom rise and fall. Alive before history, words of the historical books were Círdan's experiences, his memories extending fathoms deeper beyond that of any Elf in Middle-earth, and that age of longevity was what differentiated him from all kin. It was the same differentiation made between Elves and Men, the born and the unborn, the dead and the living; a line impossible to cross. The passing Ages had brought devastation, new paths to tread, and more experiences to live. But always, to Elrond's knowledge, in a changing world Círdan was constant; firm in resolve, lenient when appropriate, his heart hardened beyond belief against the sorrow and painful blows, mighty in wisdom, abundant in strength, and unconquerable in spirit. Any who knew well the Shipwright knew that he was unchanging. But all that Círdan now described went fully against Elrond's understanding of the bearded Elf. Yes, he had known as most others that the only King indefinite who reigned in Círdan's life was Ulmo, and such unwavering loyalty had been admirable and aweing to witness. But Valar, he had thought that had been all! No more surely than how Míriel weaved her tapestries in the domain of Vairë, or Ingwë with Manwë, for Círdan being so submissive to Ulmo made the image of a child appear in Elrond's mind.

The silence passed as Círdan gave a little, offhanded shrug to Elrond's rather dazed observation. "You never asked."

Elrond raised an eyebrow, a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. "I knew not I would have to." He looked at Círdan for a long moment, attempting to see through the mask of calm indifference always erected both in his countenance and eyes, but to no avail. For all the millennia he had known Círdan, he briefly felt, after tonight, that he might not have known him at all. "How long has such been happening?" he finally inquired.

Círdan remained silent as he looked down to the deck, a slight furrow at his brow as he thought about the question. "Indefinitely, I have no say," he spoke in time, slowly as though weighing his words. "It remains beyond my memory when the bond grew as steel, though indeed long ere your kin came to our lands." Círdan lifted his eyes, an elegant eyebrow slightly raised in a show of slight wonder. "Mayhap even ere Menegroth stood finished in all its glory. One never marks the moment a relationship grows deeper, for it long had since happened when first you realize it. Yet," he added, resolve heard well in his voice, "my deigning to obey has remained constant and ever sure since the day Ulmo first spoke to me. Still, I will deny not having been changed in heart and thought since that night on the shore, for I felt it, felt it as clearly as East is from the West. Though what it was exactly I felt I fail to describe."

"Do any others know?" Glorfindel asked the question in words quiet and soft. And for that, Elrond could not blame him, for he too understood that the topic they now discussed was conversed very seldom with anyone. For that, Elrond was beyond honored, and Glorfindel also, undeniably. But Elrond came also to quickly realize they now talked about the one thing that held the deepest place in Círdan's heart. A piercing at sword point could not have reached further, nor could any mind or power have delved deeper. This was it. And Elrond heard the underlying caution and even hesitancy in Glorfindel's words, for he felt the very same discomfort himself. Despite how well they knew the Lord of Shipwrights, neither could predict just how Círdan might react to their questions, or even the fact that they opted to press him on the whole matter, for it was beyond obvious that this was the one area of his heart and soul that Círdan had never felt any obligation – or had any will – to speak of before, had never had any desire for someone else to know of something so personal.

Círdan turned to look at the golden-haired Elda and Elrond felt that familiar, albeit amiable, frustration with the Sea-elf well up once more when he could perceive no thought in his face. "They only could guess, of which they do aplenty," he answered. "None, I deem, know me today better than Ëarhín, and not even he is aware of all I have now told you." There was a pause before a benevolent smile touched his mouth and shone bright in his eyes as he studied Elrond's faintly despondent figure, not that the Half-elf was attempting to even hide any despondency. "Elrond," he added sympathetically, "and Glorfindel, for most of your lives you have so known that my being is entwined with the Song of the Waters. That truth is one I never felt ashamed to conceal. Long have my thoughts been bent to it, my soul bound, and in no other way would I have it. Truly, so astonished are both of you by what I have spoken concerning the Vala Ulmo in my life?"

Elrond sighed, his brow furrowed as he, in turn, studied the infuriatingly deadpan Elf clad in white. "I knew you loved the waters, Círdan. Indeed, everyone knew so, for why else would you live by the sea? As I said, I knew you had periodically spoken with Ulmo, but –"

"My heart is claimed by the Sea," Círdan further elaborated, "as Ulmo has taken existence in my life. Thus, when I am called by the Sea, I go to its King. It is simple."

Elrond cocked an eyebrow in question. "How know you it is to the Vala you must go, let alone where? Speak the waters actual words?" The last was asked in skepticism, yet not unkindly, though a teasing smile did lurk near the corners of Elrond's mouth.

But Círdan seemed not to even take notice of the humor as a fond smile, a real smile, touched his face and his eyes sparked with an admiring light. "Every swift movement on Ulmo's part is the mist spraying atop the waves from his passage," he spoke reverently, the smile of awe still present. "As he inhales the tide falls and as he exhales it rises. His eyes look from the deepest depths of the Seas and the thunder of his voice is the constant rolling currents of the swells. The resonance of the sea-floor foundations come when he speaks and the melody of his song is heard in the sound of the waves, a part of and entwined with the Song of Ilúvatar." He gave a dismissive shrug. "I may see him before me clad in a form akin to my own, but in all ends, in a body Ulmo stands as the mere embodiment of all that the Waters are, for they are the creation of his hand. Ulmo is not a part of the Sea or merely its governor; he _is_ the Sea."

Círdan then looked out to the Gulf, his eyes unseeing as the waves, in their unique beauty, crashed and rolled, for he simply listened. And as he spoke, his words grew ever quieter, as though he had temporarily forgotten that two other Elves were still aboard the ship. "All waters are under his government, for he lives in the very veins of the World. It is he who creates the greatest versatility on Arda, for the water goes blending with air to form clouds, to return upon life in rain, to freeze in Winter, to run in rivers and to mingle with all parts of life and land. Nothing is left untouched by him, not even the Free Peoples. For we of the wave-folk, at least, owe our skill in music and craft of boat-making to the early teachings of Ulmo and his vassal. And so we recognize his melodies in all running waters, as well as the beating of the waves upon the sea." He seemed to snap out of his abstraction and returned his gaze to the two other Elves. "Understand you now? It is no correlation, for they are one."

Elrond bit back the smile that wanted to come forth, but he failed to keep it out of his voice. "So upon saying you are in love with the Sea, say you that you are in love with Ulmo?" He knew the half-hearted jest was as ridiculous as it sounded, but it was not so often he was able to poke fun at the Shipwright. No, he could not fully understand everything as he would like, but this opportunity was too good to resist. And he could feel Glorfindel smiling beside him.

And Círdan scowled at him, a spark of amusement in his eyes that Elrond was all too pleased to see, though the Mariner shook his head in wistful resignation. "Indeed not, as you well know, my friend," he admonished in equal jest. "But if it is that you scarcely understand, I cannot confess to being surprised. Ulmo is the Sea, but not necessarily is the Sea Ulmo, for the King is more than his Waters. Surely, the Sea mirrors his spirit and nature like no other and bends under his thought and will. But Ulmo is also a Vala, second greatest in might. As such, Ulmo is more in ways I still know not, but the Sea is indeed nothing else than him." He gave a little, dismissive gesture of his hand. "I deny not that Ulmo has my love and blind obedience, but the Sea has always been and always will be my first and only love, for you both knew long ago that I would never wed a maiden."

Glorfindel was slowly nodding and, in a fleeting glance, looked out at the bay, a curious light in his eyes. "Never before had I thought of the Waters in such a way," he murmured. "Thus, mayhap it is the same thing with Yavanna and Aulë." He looked to Círdan. "It makes sense, certainly. It is a sad thing it is not more commonly known, that the Song of Ilúvatar is more than just a song."

Elrond was nodding along with him. "Indeed so," he spoke. "I knew you would follow Ulmo's command should ever he issue it, but I cannot say I was aware that it was blind obedience you displayed."

"_I obey_," Círdan recited in amusement, though more so to himself. "I cannot number the countless times I had uttered those words. But they remain true."

"And truly, you would stay unto the ending of the World if Ulmo demanded it of you?" Elrond asked further, polite disbelief in his voice. "You would indeed obey even that, so far does your loyalty to him go?"

Círdan looked at him for a long moment, a calculating glint in his eyes that all too swiftly disappeared. "Speak your Noldorin lore of how at the feet of the King of Arda Ingwë sits?" Elrond nodded. "So I would be with the King of the Seas, if I had my way."

And that was obviously enough to be said. Thus, neither of them bothered to speak on it further, though Elrond and Glorfindel did exchange another meaningful glance, one that spoke more words than could be uttered verbally. "You are right, Círdan," Elrond continued. "I fail to fully comprehend what you speak. I believe I understand it well enough, but to fully grasp what it means to you personally…." Elrond shook his head in a negative affirmation, a slight smile playing on his features. "You once spoke long ago to me that you could not fathom the burden such an irrevocable choice between mortality and immortality placed upon me was like. Now, I reason, I sit on the other side of the table, so as such we would fail to fathom what it means for Glorfindel here to be reborn, let alone dead."

Glorfindel smiled again, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "Not all things are meant to be understood," he spoke in that wise undertone of his. "Only the foolish go to pretend they can."

A long silence reigned on the ship, neither one of the company deigning to speak next, and Elrond watched in some interest as Círdan seemed to finally commit to some decision on his part, starting with taking a deep breath. Círdan, by now, appeared beyond tired, exhaustion looking to create even a shadowy haze over his eyes, lessening by a little just how star-bright they often were. The soft creases about his eyes and mouth seemed to deepen under the night, and Elrond once again pondered how it must feel to be at so old an age that one no longer looked that youthful part of an Elf.

But Círdan then spoke, and Elrond felt an alarm flood his system when he heard an uncertainty in his voice that he had never heard before. "Believe you that it was a dream?" he asked, and though his words were quiet, both Elves could scarcely make out the nigh on desperate note in his voice. It was more than obvious that this matter was what bothered Círdan more than any other, one that might have even frightened him. The Shipwright's mien was as impassive as could be, but Elrond could sense the fear as well as anything.

Elrond and Glorfindel both furrowed their brows, exchanging other swift glance that Círdan did not even go to question. "We spoke that we believe you, Círdan," Glorfindel reassured. "We believe not you spoke any lie. You never would."

Círdan gave a slight huff in either empty amusement or biting sarcasm. "For that I am grateful. But such is not what I refer to. I know Mithrandir declared it was no dream, yet…I am weary to still believe his words. I am not crass enough to believe he was lying, but…." He sighed, looking out to the sea with a brief clench of his jaw, bitter disappointment shadowing his eyes. "For over a year now I have thought upon it, but to no avail. I recall nothing that would bring some measure of sense to this riddle. In all ends, it seems to be as Ëarhín had spoken, that everything about the voyage goes against its possibility of happening."

"It would seem so," Elrond said, feeling a hint of defeat within. Likewise, he could make no sense over how a journey across the Sundering Sea could have happened in only more than a day. And if he himself felt this amount of frustration, he could only imagine how Círdan felt. "I pretend not to even have an inkling of the power to be beheld in the Vala of Dreams, though I believe it not to be beyond him. I mark your fear, Círdan, for I understand it," he added kindly. "I know of no Elf who could differentiate between dream and vision better than you, for it was by your aid and counsel I came to better undergo and comprehend the Sight when it initially came upon me. As much as it counts, I do believe it happened as you say, though of how, I am in the same dark as you."

Círdan gave no reaction to Elrond's words, neither by voice nor expression. In the end, though, he did nod, giving sign that he had heard and considered the words, as much as they were worth. "Your insight grants me some ease, at any rate. If this is madness, at least I am not alone in it," he spoke, ill-humored. "What say you, Glorfindel, if you have words at all to say? You are rather quiet."

Glorfindel glanced up at Círdan at the question, and there was an air about him, one of intense concentration. He seemed distracted as he answered, his brow furrowed deep in thought. "I second the words of Elrond, for I too reflect the same. I have also never experienced the power wielded by Lórien, nor have I ever heard it described. But if all this was, indeed, a dream, then it would have been certainly done by the work of the Vala of Dreams, for I doubt any imagination alone could have conjured what you described, even in sleep."

Glorfindel leaned forward with his fingers steepled and that intense light still shining in his eyes. "Upon my return to Middle-earth, I had to pass through the barrier of Enchanted Isles and I remember well how the Tower of Pearl appeared to the naked eye, as well as the wonders felt upon seeing the Shadowy Seas. Your descriptions were very accurate, so much so that they stirred memories long forgotten of my own. I find it hard to believe anyone, even you, could envisage such images all on your own."

"Such seems to only emphasize the impression that it was a dream." Círdan slightly shook his head, that disconcerting air about him becoming even more prominent. "Mayhap it was," he spoke with a note of finality, a dull tone of resignation. "Despite Mithrandir's claim, mayhap it was, and I know not my own mind anymore. Ëarhín's words remain true to the letter, for it is impossible to sail the Sundering Sea in only a day. As bidden, I have searched my vault of memories for now a year, and still no answer comes forth on that."

"Actually…."

Both Elrond's and Círdan's attention snapped over to Glorfindel, hearing the undeniably positive note of doubt in the one word. But he was now looking directly at Círdan, that intense light now replaced by one of resolve. He looked to be still a tad uncertain, but he was determined. "When initially you spoke of the Lord of Waters, it first reminded me of Tuor when he arrived in Gondolin with Voronwë." But then he waved the words away, coming to as though shaking himself from his train of thought. "It is but a memory and may hold to nothing."

"Speak it," encouraged Círdan. "Though your face is full of joy, wisdom is on your brow. Some insight may be leant. And if not so, then at least it shall distract me from my worries a while longer."

Glorfindel smiled at that, but nonetheless spoke, his eyes clouded over in reminiscence. "As I spoke, it may hold to nothing, but something in your tale stirs in my memory something similar Tuor described. Upon his arrival and in the King's company, all chiefs of the Houses were present to hear the words he had been bidden to deliver by Ulmo." Círdan surreptitiously nodded, memory alight in his eye as he recalled that moment in olden times. He had obviously heard of it through the waters himself. "We all know well what was spoken of it and by whom, so on that I remain silent. But at Tuor's tale, much interest was stirred, indeed on my part and, indeed, on many of the Noldor who had crossed the Helcaraxë. Though some Valar walked among Elves in the Uttermost West, it was never known that Ulmo did. Despite our defiance and will to distance ourselves from the Valar in the Age, any knowledge of Ulmo had remained long and far from us." He smiled briefly with an amused spark in his eyes. "No attempts prevailed in prying open Sea-elven lips," he teased and was rewarded with a brief smile of amusement in return, and one that was clearly somewhat prideful on Círdan's part.

"Some of us were interested, and sooner than later opportunity came to sate it," he continued. "Ere midnight struck during The Gates of Summer – Tuor's first – many lords were gathered to initiate the vigil, and with me were Duilin, Egalmoth and Galdor. Tuor came to join us, in then which we relatively cornered him. He made some jest towards Duilin's attire; of how he could be mistaken for a water-bird Tuor spied while at the sea." A fond smile creased Glorfindel's face at the memory, mellow merriment alight in his blue eyes, all of which faded swiftly back into the tense concentration that had now creased his visage for several minutes. "Such was prompting enough. So at our request and with no less awe, he spoke his tale in full. And a great amount of time was spent on how _terrified_ he was of Ulmo."

Círdan's slight smile grew as he shook his head ruefully. "Ulmo does tend to have such an effect, for he comes as a mounting wave that strides to the land. To this day, even I must remind myself that there is no cause for fear."

Glorfindel chuckled. "Well, Tuor spoke he had never been so petrified in his life. Though he did claim to be calmed when hearing…." He snapped his fingers in irritation. "What is the thing called?"

Círdan was shrewdly nodding. "I know of what you speak, though I know not its name." He must have notice Elrond's slight expression of downright bewilderment, for he went to explain. "At times, Ulmo has borne an instrument of music, one different from the Ulumúri, and it is great. Though few times in number, he has before played it for my ears to hear alone, and I never asked its name." Círdan narrowed his eyes in thought, a light of mystified wonder entering them. "It is of a strange design, for it seems to be made of many long, twisted shells pierced with holes, if you could so imagine. It was treated as a flute, blown therein and played by long fingers." Círdan shook his head, the wonder evidently growing as he appeared to recall such a time when he had heard it. "But on it, Ulmo had made deep melodies of a magic greater than any other musicians could create on harp or lute, on lyre or pipe, or on instruments of the bow. Upon hearing it, never will you fail to recall it."

"And such is what you hear in the Music of the Sea?" Elrond asked, somewhat amazed, for never had he heard of such a thing.

"It is a part of it, more as a distant echo behind his voice." Círdan looked back to Glorfindel. "I apologize for interrupting, but that I suspect Tuor heard has no name."

Glorfindel shrugged. "Well, your descriptions are of the same hue, though Tuor's were much less vivid. But Tuor spoke of being entranced by this thing of shells and heeded it, though he said he was stricken dumb by the greatness of the sea. As I spoke, Tuor described to having felt terrified to the core upon laying sight on the Vala when he emerged from the waters, and thought he had come near death when Ulmo finally spoke. And after the message was delivered, Tuor spoke of Ulmo being wrapped in a mist, almost as if it emerged from the sea itself."

Círdan nodded, unsurprised by the words. "Such was how he appeared to me when he came to summon me to the sea. But all this is known, Glorfindel. In what way had my tale reminded you of his?"

He furrowed his brow, cocking slightly his head to the side in thought. "Tuor also described feeling as though time had stopped. He inquired us if such was with all Valar, being that he had only met one, and we had told him indeed it was so, for the concept of Time 'standing still' was present in Aman." He grinned and gave a brief chuckle. "Tuor came across as relieved, however, much to our amusement. For he went on to describe how he had spent many a night pondering on the sensation, fearing that he might have had a brief spell of madness. He had no idea whether his own mind was lost, or whether Ulmo meddled with his own way of measuring time simply for his amusement, but –"

His words were cut off as Círdan, out of nowhere, suddenly inhaled a sharp breath, his eyes slightly widening in astonishment. "How could I have failed to remember that?" he breathed in obvious disbelief.

Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged another glance, this time of confusion. "Forgotten what?" Elrond asked.

"Meddling," Círdan went on to himself, that incredulous disbelief still smothering his voice. "Ulmo meddling with time."

"What do you speak of?" Glorfindel then asked, his brow furrowing deeper as he stared at Círdan in no small amount of bafflement.

Círdan looked between them both, though it could be seen through his eyes that his thoughts were flying. "In quiet ways, the Vala Ulmo has the power to transform time, to turn years into days."

Elrond raised a skeptical eyebrow. "He does?"

Círdan nodded, his eyes still distant with that disbelieving wonder. "Ossë once told me that Ulmo's chariot is driven by narwhal and sealion, and that sometimes his urgency and speed of his coming was so great that years of traversing his Waters were accomplished in mere days. For all things sacred," he self-berated in a tight voice, "how could I have _forgotten_ that? It was one of the first revelations given of the Vala to me."

Elrond grinned, raising an eyebrow, this time in amusement. "I deem you have finally remembered what you were bidden to?"

Círdan nodded. "And now I feel as a fool."

But Glorfindel was staring at him in downright skepticism, though not impolitely. "Speed?" he spoke, disbelief in his voice. "Valar, with how much this confused everyone, I was anticipating some great mystic feat to see it done. But it was all made possible by _speed_?"

Círdan gave a slight shrug, certainly nowhere as surprised as Glorfindel was. "Only the slightest fault in technique can make awry an arrow's course. Through one variable, Ulmo is empowered to change our perception of time without our realizing it. And in caution for what happened to Tuor and now me, of how we questioned our sanity, he seldom does. As I spoke, Ulmo's ways are quiet, save to garner attention when needed."

"But why insist you stay asleep, though, when already you knew of it?" Elrond pursued.

Círdan shrugged. "I know not, though I know well he had his reasons, for I recall how drained I felt upon waking each time. Perchance such traversing across the Sea might have caused me harm while fully awake. Or possibly I might have panicked. I simply know not. Mayhap if ever I see him again, I shall ask." He shook his head again in self-condemnation. "But by grace, I should have known. Every day the Song sounds in my ear, and here I was deaf to it when possibly therein laid the answer."

"Sometimes the Song is meant only to be heard," Glorfindel suggested.

"Always heard, aye," Círdan agreed. "Yet in time of knowledge or strength, only those who have grown by the ages of the World are able to wield that they draw from the Song; thereby, _I_ have no excuse."

Elrond regarded Círdan curiously. "Is that how you crafted this ship?"

Círdan cast his gaze around the _Fëagaer_ at that, his eyes moving from the bulwark of the hull, up the mast, across the spars and back down yardarm and mainsail. "I used the Music of the Waters," he confessed. "Aside from the Song, there also resides the song of Ulmo, and it was that I worked to draw upon the most."

"Well," Glorfindel concluded, his words full with contentment, "now at least your mind may be at ease, now that you have remembered."

Círdan shook his head in disgust. "There goes by a year, wasted away in folly," he murmured.

Elrond felt they had returned well enough back onto safe ground for him to voice something further and of a completely different topic. "I have a question about the pearl…."

Elrond's words trailed off as he took swift notice of the unnaturally guarded expression that came as a curtain over Círdan's countenance. Though his face remained impenetrable as ever, the hard light was easily discernible in his eyes. "What of it?" he asked, the kindness in his voice an eerie foil to the dangerous sparkle in his eye.

"Nothing too deep to worry over," Elrond slowly reassured, inwardly unnerved by what he was seeing. But he was no Elf to back down, particularly when he, at times, had to put up with Gil-galad when the High King had been in a snappish mood, or even with an irate father-in-law. Though Círdan could be just as bad, if not more eerily startling in how he went about it, particularly when he intensely regarded one as such. "However, how you described what it _did_ to you greatly unnerved me."

"And?"

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "Are you well?"

The briefest hint of a wan, almost invisible smile was seen as Círdan, in an uncharacteristic way, turned away his eyes to look out at the water. "And so come forth your healer's instincts," he murmured with an appreciative undertone. "I elected almost to speak naught of the pearl to you, no matter the place you hold in my heart." He looked back to Elrond and Glorfindel, unblinking and all too grave. "Such was too personal, for still it remains ever close to my soul. But for the sake of making sense of that I fail to comprehend, I deemed it wise to speak of it."

Glorfindel cocked his head to the side. "What fail you to comprehend?"

"What it meant," he clarified, briefly suppressing a yawn. "I felt a calling unheard of be stirred in my being, and it has not yet died." He missed the fleeting glance Elrond and Glorfindel again exchanged. "I simply wish to know what calling it is if not to the Undying Lands."

Elrond was cautious with his words. "For that I have no answer. But Círdan, would not seeking answers from your own people be wiser? Many are far more adept at understanding the workings of the Waters than either of us."

Círdan looked at him for a long moment, rueful in his gaze. "Your wife is of the closest treasures to your heart. Would you walk about with her upon your arm simply as proof to show others that you are bonded? Or would you walk with Celebrían close to your side because of the deeper place she holds in you?"

Elrond gave a little, endearing smile, a sympathetic light entering his eye. "It means that much to you?"

Círdan looked between them both, his visage grave and weary, and his eyes darkened by some emotion that Elrond could not mark. "You both know the place pearls hold in my heart and of the countless searches for them. This pearl is a firebrand upon me, as much as it is tangible. Words could give no justice on what this gift means to me. Furthermore, it is no random sea-gem found strewn about on the sea floor; it is _his_ pearl." Círdan shook his head in an appearance of being simply overwhelmed, conveying his inability to express what he meant through words alone. "You could not fathom it. No gift greater could have been given."

The endearing smile grew with a hint of merriment. "I have no doubt of that, for as it was inferred many a time in your tale, there are none who know you better than Ulmo," Elrond spoke. "You are certain you are well?"

Círdan looked down in his lap, grey irises serene and unbothered, and Elrond could not resist observing, in that moment during that particular night, how the creases and weathered lines of old age made the Mariner appear rather…fragile, particularly with the way the silver lighting from the lanterns was cast. It made the hardhearted Elf, former lieutenant of the High King, and a Lord and king in his own right, come across as delicate, of all things. Elrond knew that he would sorely regret his particular choice of words should they ever be uttered aloud, and most likely for several decades (though Círdan did certainly have a soft spot for the Half-elf, Elrond doubted that his compassion would go _that_ far), but in that brief moment, Elrond thought he might have seen a glimpse of the Shipwright described in Círdan's tale. Fleetingly seeing Círdan in that frame of light, mayhap it was possible to visualize the primitive Sea-elf kneeling at Ulmo's feet, head bowed, visibly subservient, and positively obedient to any command. Elrond surely, in his wildest imaginations, could not envisage Círdan doing that for anybody else, Vala or no.

But the moment passed as the dark clouds shifted overhead and cast the shadows to play differently on all those aboard the ship. The foreign image passed from Elrond's sight and he had to force his attention to come to, resorting back to patiently waiting for an answer to his inquiry.

"You know what happened when I took hold of his pearl," Círdan spoke, his voice coarse and quiet. "Every night ere I lay down to rest I hold it again, and every time the power of the sensations then stirred within are as mighty and deep as when first they were felt. Mayhap even more so, I would dare say. And every time it is as new, for now four seasons later, I still have not grown accustomed to it, even by a little." He looked keenly to Elrond, that soft smile surfacing once more on his reserved face that erased millennia of age and burdens and hardships from his visage. And though his eyes remained ever grave in their intense light, no pain or evidence of suffering from the pearl's effects could be seen, and such was an answer enough. But then again, Elrond amended grudgingly a moment later, any relief he might have felt vanishing, Círdan had ever been a master at concealing how he truly felt.

"Aye," Círdan conceded, weariness seeping into his voice, "my yearning for the Waters and their creator is made so deep and powerful during any time his pearl rests in my hand. So much so that, amid the night, my every thought and dream is bent upon that yearning. And during the day, I feel the residual ache left from craving for something that is just beyond your reach." Círdan shrugged in an indifferent sense of resignation. "My desire and love for the Sea had been ever great before, beyond logic so I am told. But now it might even be more so. It is not the yearning that is greater, but rather that the sensations of it are sharper and less possible to ignore. It is…painful, sometimes. But it is a pain I welcome, for it is as though you walk a long, chosen journey and yet ache to be home." This time, the smile was certain to be seen, as a light entered the Shipwright's eyes that was a mix of slight amusement and endearing exasperation. "In answer to your question, aye; I am well. There is nothing I would have different."

Elrond shook his head in mind self-rebuke, uncertain as to why he had been so concerned in the first place. Círdan was very dear to him, of course, really family in all ways that counted, save by blood, as much as Glorfindel was. Naturally, he would always be concerned and ever watchful of the old Sea-elf when it came to anything that might harm his wellbeing, be it physically, mentally, or emotionally. He knew well enough that Círdan could take care of himself better than most; after all, he had survived really every Elf that there was to survive, managed to escape the countless battles and skirmishes with his life intact, and had never fully succumbed to the death by grief. By some unexplained blessing or downright luck, the primordial Shipwright had managed to stay alive since he had awoken at Cuiviénen, and that was something Elrond considered quite an accomplishment – an admirable accomplishment at that. Being that he had never yet died, he was obviously doing something right in the means of looking after himself. Rationally, Elrond could have no concern for the wellbeing of the silver-haired Elf. Rationally, he knew there was no reason to worry. But rationality had little significance when it came to the deep love and respect Elrond held for the Sea-elf. Irrationally, he would fret, but even with the groundless reasons behind it, Elrond knew that there was no need to do so now.

Despite the phrasing and language Círdan had used to describe all the interactions with the Vala, which conveyed beyond words how deeply said Vala was held in awe by Círdan, it was all too evident that Ulmo cared for the Shipwright, and cared for him deeply, no matter how Círdan opted to speak on the matter. And based on what he had heard, Elrond was firmly convinced that Ulmo would never do or give anything to the Sea-elf that would harm him in any fashion. It was just not possible. And aside from that, Círdan was probably one of the only Elves Elrond knew that would never lie about his state of health, particularly to him. If he had no desire for a healer to know, he would simply answer the inquiry with silence. But Círdan never had lied in a matter of such gravity, and he certainly was not now.

"Never mind," Elrond finally came to speak with a reluctant smile. "I believe you."

But Glorfindel, it seemed, was not so easily convinced. A furrow could be seen on his brow and his eyes were narrowed in either confusion or concern. "You speak as though you no longer desire to linger in Middle-earth," Glorfindel spoke, implicit as could be. "It sounds as if you crave for something more, something to remain unfounded in these lands." The words were so full of meaning that the unspoken message could not have been more clearly conveyed even if it had been shouted.

Círdan raised an eyebrow, his piercing stare locked with Glorfindel's in ill-humored amusement, and Elrond suppressed a smile. He recognized that look and knew that Círdan was not about to allow himself to be cornered in an exchange of cryptic words. But as ever, he offered no smile and his grey eyes remained calm and grave, once more allowing Elrond to subconsciously reflect that, though Círdan had a quiet sense of humor, it was so seldom shown, if not at all.

"By intention or no, you misunderstand me, my old friend," he began. "For all that my heart wishes, I have all I could ever have, and I could ask no more. I have lived my life, a good life, among the lands of Ennor and have given both my service and blood to see that they remain unconquered by the Shadow a while longer. In Middle-earth I reside, and with my people I am merry – in my own way," he added in wry sarcasm at Elrond's skeptical look. "No, there is no further blessing I could ask for. And that I truly yearn for remains far beyond the reach of any. Besides…." The words trailed off. And the natural mask of indifference must have slipped for but a moment, for a solemn frown of what seemed to be sorrow flashed across Círdan's face, all too quickly to disappear and go to settle in his eyes.

"Besides," Círdan tried once more, "long has it been known and known well among our people that Elves are bound to Arda, thus bound to walk the lands therein forevermore until whatever end….And the Sea is not land, when on land I must remain. Yearning for the impossible, along with guilt, may just be the greatest of self-tortures." The brief flash of a resigned, pitiful smile was seen before Círdan rid himself of it and shook himself, releasing a deep breath as though to dispel of the forlorn thoughts within. "But I digress and ask you to dismiss my self-pity," he went on, his quiet voice once more strong and firm, and through his eyes he turned a challenge on Glorfindel, their light keen. "I have heard many an account by High-elf and tale alike. Great healing is spoken to be found in the West, a rest and release from all weariness and pain obtained while in the Hither Lands, be they great or small. But long have I learned to endure such burdens, so now that the burden of bearing them is a burden no longer. As I declared, I have no desire to see Aman, let alone thereafter reside there. My heart is with the Sea, and I doubt the lands beyond it shall hold much fascination for me. Thus, if you are asking why I bother not to sail, you waste your breath."

"You can hardly judge that you have never seen," Glorfindel admonished, a teasing smile on his lips.

"What I have not seen…." Círdan repeated softly, his eyes thoughtfully clouded over in piqued interest. "Your words are wise, and if judging that I have naught but heard of makes me unwise, then unwise I am. I discredit not the worth the Undying Lands are to the Elves. Indeed, I never would, for the Elvenhome is our greatest gift from the Valar. But though I will neither eschew nor scorn it when I finally do sail, I will be sure to mark that moment for countless centuries yet. Trust me when I speak I have seen enough."

There was naught more to be said on that, Elrond quickly deduced, not that there was any more that could be said in the first place. Even Glorfindel gracefully retreated when he promptly construed the meaning behind Círdan's words, and Elrond could not blame him. In a span of only ten years, Círdan had seen more lands than either of them could ever hope to see added together. And such travels were swiftly followed by over ten millennia of dwelling in Beleriand, firstly journeying whereto the lands his curiosity and youthful thirst for adventure led him, ere to thereafter settle with the lordship over Brithombar and Eglarest amid the broad capes of the Falas. And when the westernmost lands were forever submerged beneath the Waters, then came next nearly five more millennia of traveling and dwelling in Middle-earth once more, let alone to where the myriad of expeditions by sea took him. Under that speculation, Elrond could not help but to agree that Círdan had seen enough and that any thirst to lay sight on new lands, be they blessed by the Valar or no, had undoubtedly died long before Elrond or Glorfindel had ever been born. And probably long before the deepest caves of Menegroth had been completed.

Círdan was content with his ships while residing with his Sea-elven people. And living on the shores of the sea provided him all the elation and harmony he needed.

"That you appear to be in the mood to answer questions, I have another to ask of you, and it is one I have wondered upon for a while this night," Elrond spoke up, realizing that the other two were less enthused to keep alive the conversation. "If now you have a pearl, then why continue searching for more? You returned from such a journey today."

Círdan studied Elrond with no thought upon his face, and Elrond felt that familiar frustration surface when he saw that indecipherable light enter his gaze once more. Just for once, he would like to deduce what that certain look of Círdan's meant.

"I was looking not for pearls," he answered, sounding ever slightly cautious with his words.

"Then what were you looking for?"

"Answers."

"What kind of answers?" This time, a faint light of a different kind entered Círdan's keen eyes, so swift and abruptly veiled that Elrond knew he would have missed it had he not been looking for it. And immediately, Elrond knew that the Shipwright was about to lie through his teeth.

"I know not," he spoke evasively. "I will know when I find them." He grinned at Elrond's mild look of exasperation. "Concern yourself not with my searches, young one. They are my own. Besides, Ulmo gifted me with one of his own mighty pearls. I would not insult him so by endeavoring to find another."

On Glorfindel's face, a glimpse of that signature smile of his was seen. "So you will not show us it?" he asked, the look in his bright eyes signifying that he knew already the answer, but voiced the question nevertheless merely for the purpose of saying something.

And Círdan shot a look of gravely coated sympathy towards him, his eyes apologetic, yet unyielding. "No, my lord," he refused, though not unkindly. "Never would I deign to infringe that held closest to your heart, and neither would you so willingly allow me. As I spoke, I nearly opted to keep the pearl secret from you. Mayhap my heart grows colder over the passing Ages, or mayhap more hollow in compassion, but no matter my love for you, I will grant neither of you this." There was a brief show of the muscle flexing along his jaw. "I cannot, for how can I permit you to lay sight on his pearl when I scarce have the courage to do so myself?"

Though Elrond had expected none, he needed no further explanation and he was sure that Círdan knew it, also. And he could help not but to smile and shake his head at his elder in affectionate exasperation. The Half-elf's thoughts were aligned and the perceptions of his spirit in tune with those of the others aboard the _Fëagaer_. And though Círdan's face remained, as always, emotionless and his eyes scrupulously blank, if a tad vacant in his thoughts, Elrond could easily feel the wonder and overwhelming sense of shame that so clearly radiated off of the Mariner. And the Half-elf did not even have to question why the Sea-elf felt shame, of all preposterous things, when Círdan's thoughts were so bent on the sea-gem from Ulmo's girdle. Elrond had known Círdan his whole life. He had been practically raised by him and Gil-galad, another noble Elf raised from childhood into adulthood by the Shipwright. Thus, he knew and understood Círdan far better than most, recognized that he was one of the few people in Middle-earth who could claim that he actually _knew_ him. And Elrond was aware that, no matter the words spoken to him, Círdan would always feel greatly unworthy of such a gift. And apparently, Ulmo's pearl had been the greatest gift Círdan could have ever received.

"All is well." Glorfindel broke the despondent silence in his merry way, looking between the two of them, his face alight with joy. "Your descriptions of it gave an ample impression on how it looks."

Círdan lightly pursed his lips, his brow furrowing. "It now looks different," he muttered, thoughtful curiosity in his voice. "Thinking back upon it, the pearl has much changed over the year."

Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged another glance, simultaneously raising an eyebrow. "How so?" they both voiced.

Círdan shrugged, his eyes carrying a heavy amount of uncertainty. "In hue and dimension, it is no different. In what it does to me, it is no different. But it shines now brighter, as an Elf would grow more alive in spirit over time. The glow it once emitted was as the brightness of the Moon. Now, if held in hand, it can disperse shadows upon walls as if it were candlelight shining through crystal. Long have I learnt not to gaze upon it for a great length of time, for it will blind me so that I may as well be staring at the Sun. Yet still, peace is brought to my days by it, and I know the dreams dreamt at night are caused by it."

"What sort of dreams?" Elrond never failed to ask such when the old Elf mentioned he had a dream, however trivial sounding, for as much as Círdan was plagued with the Sight, one could never be too sure when a dream could be considered as insignificant, save by Círdan himself. And Elrond did try – he really did try – to picture the pearl as Círdan now described. It was not that he failed to visualize it as such, but that it went beyond his wonder than any pearl could look so. He had seen and kept many fair pearls in his youth that Círdan had collected about the Isle of Balar. Of many proportions, many contours and many hues they had been. But this one now sounded truly unlike any he had laid sight on before, encouraging him to wholly believe Círdan when he professed that it was far greater than even Nimphelos. He respected and understood well Círdan's refusal at permitting them to see the pearl, but all the same…he was simply itching to see it with every fiber of his being.

Círdan shrugged again, conveying the obvious thought that he believed the question trifling. "When the Sight is dormant, I often dream of the Sea, and in so many kinds that I dare not describe them here," he spoke. "But though still upon the Sea, the dreams are altered somehow and more focused." His eyes clouded over, looking into a faraway world neither he nor Glorfindel could see, and Elrond surmised that he must have then been recalling that he had namely dreamt. "I smell the sea air. I hear the sounds of great conches, the cry of the whale, the rhythm of a swelling tide, no high words or concourse of folk, and the music of Ulmo's instrument. I see doorways of sea-wrought stone, tall and broad in majesty; diving cormorants and cranes about coastal cliffs, seawater red as wine, moveless and empty waters flowing as that of a dark keel, night with stars aloft, and wonders beyond my understanding that enrapture me by an awe that not even the Silmarils inspired." There was a wonder in his voice as he spoke and an enthusiasm so seldom heard that it was a mark of significance that it was distinct now. And after a moment, his grey eyes cleared of whatever daydream that had lain before him as he visibly brought his attention back to the present. "Strange indeed, and yet welcome. I know why you ask, Elrond, and it is not of the Sight."

Elrond arched a speculative eyebrow and quirked his mouth in amusement. "You surely make the Sea sound far more interesting than I ever could. I believe I will send my children to you to learn with accuracy all there is to know about it, no matter their age. They seemed to lose interest in it under my tutelage. And next to you, I sound as a foolish amateur."

Elrond felt his heart warm as he caught sight of the smile that Círdan tried so valiantly to suppress, though he failed to conceal the spark of laughter in his eyes. Glorfindel, however, had no such qualms and chuckled away.

"An unwise suggestion, my lord," Glorfindel teased. "Give Círdan free reign to teach as he pleases and soon enough, you shall be cursed by having three new Sea-elves running about Imladris, more or less living along the banks of the Bruinen."

"I resent that," Círdan grunted.

"Good."

Elrond rolled his eyes. "Truly, though, I would wish my children to spend some amount of time here, to learn all that the Sea-elves had taught me. Let them be educated in the ways of the wave-folk, for there is much here to be learnt."

Círdan slowly nodded. "Such as how to weave a net out of water," he mused.

Elrond stared at him in a mixture of blatant disbelief and surprise, looking for some sign that the Shipwright was being lighthearted. He hoped he was. He could number the amount of times Círdan had, in past, jested with him, and he was wondering if this moment could be counted as another. But it was not often he could determine whether the Sea-elf was jesting or if he was truly serious, and this appeared to be no exception. Círdan's visage remained so vexingly blank. Elrond half believed the words to be a jest because of the mere impossibility of what Círdan had described. But no sign of humor could be seen on his face and Elrond was again reminded that Círdan seldom, if not ever, revealed anything he learned periodically from the Powers of the Waters. Yet still, weaving a net out of water was a little too farfetched, even for the Sea-elf's standards. Círdan had to be poking fun at him. He had to be, yet he just could not tell.

"I see," Elrond spoke carefully. "In any case, such can be discussed later. Returning to your tale, I am certain you endeavored to distract us, but I indeed took note of how you so carefully refrained from telling us what these three beings exactly were." Elrond cocked his head to the side, the same, knowing light entering his gaze. "And so I ask again; Mithrandir is no Man, is he?"

Círdan mirrored the gesture and arched an eyebrow. "Thus, I say again; if he saw it essential to inform you not of his origin, neither shall I. I gave my word and to none shall I break it. I would that it could be otherwise, Elrond," he added with an apologetic gaze as he glimpsed the Half-elf's disappointment and borderline frustration. "I truly do, yet that choice is not given for me to make."

Elrond passed a weary hand over his face, suppressing a grimace as he felt the beginnings of fatigue start to take their toll on his body. "I understand, Círdan, and I bear no bitterness towards you." He clenched his jaw, his brow furrowing in the ever-present maddening confusion. "I only wish to know what he is. I know Mithrandir is no Man, and you all but confess so. He acts very little as one either, for he reminds me too far well of Eönwë, for reasons I cannot fathom, a task no Man had yet to achieve."

Círdan looked long and hard at Elrond, his eyes betraying no thought and the gravity of his gaze ever keen. Though Elrond was taken by little surprise, no response was forthcoming, for instead Círdan turned his attention to that of Glorfindel's, and the two elder Eldar locked their eyes for several moments, intense concentration alight in both pairs and neither shifting nor blinking. Both were silent, taking no notice of how tendrils of their hair, golden and silver, softly wafted in the ocean breeze, leading Elrond to swiftly and rightly conclude that the two of them were mind-speaking. The Half-elf took no offense and instead gave a mere shake of his head in mock exasperation, an easy smile on his face, briefly wondering why, at that moment, he felt as an Elf-child once again who had walked upon two adults, only to interrupt a grave and discreet discussion. Elrond shook his head again; only Círdan and Glorfindel, of all people, could make him feel as such.

The unnatural silence persisted, enabling the clear water chuckling along the ship's hull and sweeping along the shoreline come to sound all the more numinous and strident. And in the far distance to the north, the beginning rumbles of thunder sounded. More and more time passed by and yet still, Círdan and Glorfindel had not made even the smallest change in position, by his observation, and both pairs of eyes – both capable of being fierce and fell or merry and warm – both pairs remained locked. To the ignorant observer, it might have appeared that the two were in a contest of wills. But, though Elrond was conscious that he himself possessed massive reserves of patience, said patience was reaching the initial stages of starting to wear thin. For how much longer would they converse? Elrond was very well aware – and unbothered – of the fact that Glorfindel knew something about this Mithrandir that he himself did not, but surely that little something did not merit this long a conversation by mind?

Elrond was not so crass or discourteous to go to break their eye-contact by some means, but even while he was pondering on how to garner their attention once more, they took care of the slight impasse for him. With a rather sudden and unanticipated abruptness, the two Elves simultaneously turned to look at him, expectancy in both gazes.

And Elrond looked from Círdan, to Glorfindel, and back again, trying his upmost best to smother the sense of discomfort growing within. "What?" he finally spoke, a tad more forcefully than he had intended.

Glorfindel shrugged in a manner that absolved him of any guilt whatsoever and looked to Círdan in question. The Shipwright, in turn, took a moment to glower at him and then turned a faint smile on Elrond.

"When next you meet Mithrandir," Círdan advised, his eyes deep with thought, "tell him that. It would be interesting to witness his reaction at being compared to a Maia." And then any lightheartedness that might have been present vanished in an instant. "If you would so please, speak, Elrond, what Mithrandir said when he spoke to you of now being the Keeper of Narya. I knew the day would come, and for it, my mind has not rested."

Elrond gestured vaguely with one hand, unable to perceive the relevance behind the question. "Nothing to mark as significant, by my reckoning. He essentially reiterated most of what you spoke to us tonight; of how his need is greater and use will come of it at last while about on his journeys." He looked over at Glorfindel. "Am I correct?"

Glorfindel nodded and went to speak, but then stopped. A strange glimmer shone in his eyes just then, as though, out of nowhere and prompted by nothing, he had just remembered something peculiar and somewhat confusing. Glorfindel turned a puzzling glare on Círdan and deafly pointed an accusing finger at him. "Elrond is correct, yet I just recalled. He, too, told us of how you seemed to see the world for the first time upon removing the Ring. And when we questioned him, he spoke, 'If, in this, any weakness of his could be named, it is the strength of his spirit. And of whereto it resides, the Ring of Ruby neither could prevail nor sustain. Thus, to of it be free, he was wholly keen.'" Glorfindel paused with his eyebrows raised in query, his hands open in an unperturbed gesture of expectation. "What had he meant?"

Elrond was uncertain whether he should feel more wry amusement or concern at how Círdan appeared to become a little more alert at the words. And his silvery gaze seemed to bore into Glorfindel's, the intensity of it being a clear reminder of just how ancient and mighty a Sinda Círdan had long been. But Glorfindel, in his unique manner, was not cowed even in the slightest, a rueful smile visibly being suppressed from quirking the corners of his mouth. Of course he was not cowed, Elrond thought. Any other sensible being would have shaken under that particular intent look of the Shipwright's. But Glorfindel had faced down a Balrog and prevailed, in a manner of speaking. It would probably take nothing short of a Vala to terrify him.

"That," Círdan emphasized, the chill of the quietness of his voice bordering on artic, "is wholly none of your concern. Indeed, I know whether not to be unsurprised or indignant that he spoke of such to you." His eyes were hard as chips of ice, penetrating with displeasure and his countenance was the furthest from being congenial. The aging creases along his face and bright tresses framing it seemed to all the more enforce the grim resolve he now regarded Glorfindel with. All things considered, the expression he bore was still quite unreadable, and rather disconcerting. And the sight, not so common with the Shipwright these days, briefly brought back to Elrond's mind the uncanny remembrance of the Círdan who had served as Gil-galad's lieutenant and consultant for the whole of the Second Age. Elrond suppressed a shiver. In those bygone eras and beyond, Círdan had been even more difficult and intimidating to approach.

"He is only concerned for you," Glorfindel responded. A small, soft smile played at his lips but did not reach his eyes. They shone as grave as Círdan's. And if Glorfindel was in any way perturbed by the glimpses of ire that bristled as sparks of fire in Círdan's eyes, he did not show it, remaining as calm and unflappable as he always had proven to be.

Círdan's glower darkened. "I know he is, and I do not begrudge it. Yet, what wish you for me to say? How would you I answer? My spirit is consuming me; this I cannot hide, nor could any other." The ire gradually faded from his eyes, as though it had been too heavy to uphold, and he slumped against the elegant woodwork of the bulwark with a somnolent sigh, strands of his hair blowing to hang over the gunwale. "Living with such has made life far more difficult to live, more than I could have foreseen. Alas, dying is indeed easier than living. First Radagast, then Mithrandir, and now you. And so I request; push me not to beg of you to leave me be with this."

Elrond had to subdue the nearly unbearable desire to reach out and comfort him. The sheer audacious folly of such an action notwithstanding, no matter its sincerity (for Círdan would predictably _not_ appreciate the gesture), the heartache Elrond felt for the Sea-elf in that moment did not diminish. Círdan looked drained before him, as he never had before, such lassitude and vulnerability in his eyes he did not even bother to conceal. It was a display so very unlike him that it struck Elrond to the core. And judging by the concerned furrow of Glorfindel's brow, it was as with him, also. In that moment, Elrond was all too willing to allow the conversation to be ended, for it was obvious by far that it was the one Círdan had neither the will nor the strength to discuss.

"Círdan," Elrond began slowly, and then he stopped, hesitant. He thought firstly of the things to say with caution, as though one wrong word would send the Shipwright into an even more despondent mood and into deeper ire from being pressed on it. The last place Elrond wanted to be was on the wrong side of Círdan's tongue. Though rare it ever happened he allowed his dormant temper to lift its head, let alone roar…when it did happen, it was a sight to behold. It had been very seldom Elrond had seen Círdan in a righteous fury, but not one of them was a comfortable memory to dredge. But all the same, any willingness in Elrond to let end this discussion was still swiftly overruled by the sight of Círdan appearing so…broken before his eyes. There was no other word for it, and that frightened Elrond all the more, for Círdan possessed the strength of whipcord, a resolve of steel….Círdan could never be broken.

"Círdan," he tried again, that deep worry still alight in his eyes, "with some measure of wisdom and understanding, any Elf whoso looks upon you would discern that your spirit is, indeed, consuming you; though your body is hale, your face has grown old with the ages of the World seen in your eyes, as would the face of a Man. Though young to your eyes, Glorfindel and I are far from young in age and we have both witnessed and experienced a taste of what you endure. We would understand more than most that you wish not to speak of this. Discredit us not, my friend," he added consolingly. "You need not fear us – or Mithrandir – undermining the consumption."

Elrond so wished he could have more experience in this area. It was as walking onto foreign territory. How could he help or console Círdan in this when his experience or understanding of it paled so greatly in comparison? For in an Elf, the body and spirit were coherent, not separate. But at his ancient age, both of Círdan's achieved a coherency that Elrond – or any other Elf in Middle-earth, he discerned – could not fathom. Círdan had once borne a visage of youth, as any other Elf, Elrond knew, though he had a difficult time visualizing that. But never having experienced the bliss and healing of Eldamar, after living through every millennia – every year and day – that could ever be possibly lived in the Hither Lands, his spirit had grown old and weary as the World did; it had grown dominant over his body. And because his body and spirit were connected so mightily, so his body had aged the same.

Glorfindel was nodding in firm agreement, but Círdan shook his head, the fatigue lining his body and heavy in his eyes becoming even plainer. But that familiar, impregnable wall was once more beginning to lay itself over the exposure of emotions Círdan had shone, as though the mask had briefly slipped.

"You could conceive not of its greatness, Elrond," he spoke. "Nor could you, Glorfindel, for though in death and rebirth I dare not even imagine what you have experienced, you told me yourself you had been healed. I can feel the fire burning within me, burning as brightly as the Sun would in the Night. Through the Ages, there were times of great trouble and many griefs and evil and chances. And Time goes to press upon me till I am houseless, held as mere memory. The old grow older; let it be that people vie away from them."

A small, amused smile touched Elrond's mouth, for he was ever humored at the mock disgust and quips Círdan tended to make towards his old age. But the smile soon promptly disappeared. "Círdan, you do not have to speak of it," he spoke again. "Truly, we understand and, deep down, you know we do. Mayhap Ëarhín or some other knows of it better than I, but in this matter we are not ignorant. I think what Glorfindel asked about was when Mithrandir spoke of how Narya was unable to prevail or sustain. What meant he by that?"

It was not often Círdan was embarrassed (Elrond could not, in fact, ever recall such a time), but the Half-elf was treated to such a sight now. Nothing visibly changed upon his countenance or posture, but a small glimmer of uncertainty shone in his eyes as he realized how wrongly he had interpreted the question.

"Oh," he mumbled rather sourly. "I apologize then, Glorfindel, for becoming angry."

Glorfindel smiled that bright smile of his. "All is well, my lord," he reassured. "Such is a sensitive thing for you to discuss. I could hardly blame you for being short-tempered, as I would undoubtedly be the same. But yes, Elrond is correct; I was asking after the Red Ring, not after how or by what manner your spirit consumes. So I, in turn, apologize for not making the question clearer. Thinking back on my wording, I can see how it could be easily misjudged."

Elrond suppressed a chuckle as Círdan all but rolled his eyes skyward. He instead glowered at Glorfindel, his eyes bright. But that dark and somber mood Círdan had previously emitted could no longer be sensed. "Be quiet, Glorfindel," he patronized with no hint of a smile. "Your charm works not on me."

Glorfindel's smile widened. "Give it time."

Círdan took a deep, steady breath, as though trying to summon back his quickly dissolving patience. "In answer to your question," he spoke deliberately, dividing his grave attention between the two of them, "it is simple. My soul is entwined with the Sea, as it was destined to be ever since I awoke upon the mere's watery shores of Cuiviénen." A soft, warm smile touched his face and eyes. "It is a bond I would trade in not for anything. You know this as well as anyone could."

Elrond furrowed his brow in downright perplexity. That answer seemed to only raise more questions. "I am afraid I fail to understand, Círdan. What has that to do with anything?"

"The bond." Elrond heard the murmured words and looked over to Glorfindel. A look of intense focus was in his eyes as he regarded the Shipwright with a puzzling stare. "Your heart is with the Sea, as you said. But it has naught to do with that bond as it has to do with the greatness of it, am I right?"

Elrond began to understand as Círdan nodded. "You both know well I never wanted the Ring." He briefly smiled as they both warily nodded in memory of that particular day. "The abuse of power was the downfall of many, and the lust of it is still the darkness in many hearts, of both Elf and Man alike. Really, only the Valar are wise and right in their usage of it. Yet still, the thirst for power has become the currency of our world. To me, Narya was nothing but the embodiment of power, no matter if it was to be wielded for purposes of good; thus, I hated it."

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "I know you had great reluctance to uptake the bearing of Narya. But why could she neither prevail nor sustain where your heart resides, as Mithrandir so spoke? I know your love for the Sea is greater than your willingness to wield a Ring of Power, but…."

Elrond let the question hang in the air and Círdan shook his head. "It is not that my love for the Sea is greater," he corrected. "It is that my love for the Sea is my _only_ love. The might and beauty of the Sea is greater than that of a mere Elven Ring, and it is with the Sea my heart beats as one."

At the words, Círdan once more looked out to the bay, his jaw clenching as he listened to what Elrond had heard Círdan repeatedly refer to as the 'life' of the water. To this day, Elrond could still not understand how such was possible. Water was inanimate as snow or rain might be, simply a part of life as a mountain range. Though he knew it was whereto Ulmo resided and governed, Elrond could never make sense of how one could even _hear_ the rhythm of the Depths or the song on the waves. And Elrond, as with the vast majority of Elves, had yet to hear the echoes of the Great Music that Círdan and other Sea-elves proclaimed were carried in the Waters.

But Círdan was speaking again. "During my time of bearing Narya, she resided as ever in the back of my mind, and I could feel her presence. But I hated the power she possessed, despite its decency, and did not welcome it." His words were still ever soft-spoken, but a hard note had crept up into them. "But during that residence, no matter her good and praiseworthy purposes, she tried to claim a part of me that she had no business in claiming. My heart had belonged fully with the Sea long before the Elven Rings began as a mere thought in Celebrimbor's mind. And as you recognized, Glorfindel," he went on with a nod in the golden-haired Elf's direction, "that bond was too great for Narya to invade. She tried." He gave a humorless chuckle. "Ai Lord of Night, how she tried. I could feel her clinging onto me, as a person would cling to driftwood in the rapids of a river. But I refused to allow the bond my heart had with the Waters to be severed…for my heart to be claimed by something other than the Sea, which was precisely what Narya was working to do. Yet still, no matter my efforts, Narya managed to bind herself _to_ me instead of _with_ me. I would that it could have been otherwise, but the power of the Elven Rings is great."

Elrond caught his breath in sudden comprehension, the sense of awe he felt for this Elf doubling. "And thus, your final words to Narya," he finished. "That bound to your spirit she never again would be."

Círdan slowly nodded, Glorfindel sat back and, in his eyes, Elrond saw the same wonder and incredulity that he himself felt. "Such was what Mithrandir meant," his Seneschal spoke in revelation. "Your spirit resides with the Sea and, as you said, the Sea itself was too great for the power of Narya to defeat, let alone linger there with you, particularly since you never welcomed her presence."

Círdan nodded again. "Thus, the presence of Narya never coexisted well with me. And due to that constant battle of wills, I am amazed by how much it drained me. Though I had never realized that it was the Ring's doing until I had finally removed her last year, for a veil had been lifted from my eyes."

Elrond raised his eyebrow again, though this time in pure incredulity. "You mean to say that Narya was the reason you seemed so exhausted this past age? Why you failed to even sleep with your eyes open?"

Círdan looked good and long at him. "Yes," he answered with a simple shrug.

Elrond exchanged a wary glance with Glorfindel. "Just what says that for all other Ring-bearers, then?" Elrond unconsciously felt the beat of Vilya upon his own finger at that, and worked to dismiss the sense of cataclysm that suddenly washed over him.

An endearing smile lit up Círdan's face. "Worry not over that, Elrond," he consoled. "You were and are far more willing to bear Vilya than I Narya. As I spoke to Mithrandir, the bearing of Rings is not an exact art. To each who wields one receives a different – and mayhap kinder – fate than I. You, young one, are strong of spirit and mind and possess a far greater tolerance for power than I could ever claim. In that, you are stronger than me." He gave a resigned shrug. "Surely, you are bound to Vilya in some way, and no doubt that will have some effect on you in the end. But you welcomed the Blue Ring, and allowed her a peaceful home in your mind. The Three are not evil in any form, but they are not made for everyone. For, if Narya were a person, she would have wept with joy at finally being parted from me."

Both Elrond and Glorfindel chuckled at that. "Then upon this revelation, it is well you no longer bear the Red Ring," Glorfindel spoke, a smile in his voice.

Círdan shook his head, the look in his eyes forlorn. "True such may be, but I cannot convey the fear I had lived with this past year, that my decision to give Narya to Mithrandir might have been swayed by my own desire to be rid of it."

Elrond waved the words aside. "I doubt so, Círdan. The fact you had never before allowed such a thing to happen notwithstanding, the fact remains that you never _would_ allow it. Gil-galad knew you better than I, and never would he have entrusted Narya to you if it had been so."

Círdan released a deep sigh, closed shut his eyes, and spoke nothing. He remained that way for several heartbeats before he, again, opened his eyes and a whole world of satisfaction was seen within them. "Then it is done," he spoke blithely. "Alas, it felt to have deprived me of all energy having to make a decision so crucial."

Elrond slowly nodded. "It was a crucial decision," he said. "But it was a good decision. So let your mind be at peace with that."

"What would have you done had Mithrandir rejected the offer?" Glorfindel asked in a tone of pure curiosity. "From what you told us, he accepted the Ring not lightly."

That was a very good and valid question, Elrond thought, and he looked to Círdan in interest. What would the Shipwright have done? By his parting words, it had been clear that Círdan would have placed the Ring upon his finger never again, as long as he had a say. And he had been all too ready to forever part from it. Elrond wondered if Círdan himself knew the answer, for mayhap he had not been considering the fact that Mithrandir, in the end, might have turned the offer down.

But apparently, Círdan did know the answer, for a knowing and determined light entered his eyes. "I would have rid myself of it," he answered smoothly, his voice betraying none of the thoughts that could practically be seen going through his mind. "On these shores, Narya had always been idle and always would be. Why allow myself to suffer when my people will not benefit from it, or when they would benefit more with my mind clear?"

Glorfindel raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And how would you have been rid of it?" he asked. "The Three were made to endure and by no means can be destroyed, unless the means be of Celebrimbor."

"I would have mirrored the actions of Maglor," he firmly declared, and no doubt or hesitation accompanied the words. "Some may proclaim that it was with haste or ill thought, but it was with wisdom Maglor cast the Silmaril into the sea, whereto it would thereafter remain. There the Shadow holds no sway and not even Morgoth, in all his might and power, could subdue the Waters. And Maglor knew that the one place where Evil could never pass through to retrieve the Silmaril was in the Waters of Ulmo. In that course, Maglor was wise." He raised his hands in question, as though waiting for one of them to speak against his words. And a mocking, slightly disgusted lilt entered his tone. "So one would ask, how different is it with the Ring of Fire, or of Water, or of Air? Greatest of the Great Rings, jewels unsullied, crafted by the blood of Fëanor, unmatched, undefeated, mighty in beauty and Power, and when therein lies the absence of Time; the envy of many a race great and small, and the lust of Gorthaur."

He lowered his hands when he finished, but Elrond and Glorfindel remained silent. They knew well that Círdan held no fascination for the Elven Rings, or for any Noldorin craft, for that matter. But the last time when they had heard him speak such ill, mocking words towards them had been that night in Gil-galad's study, nearly an Age ago. And as he had done on that night when Narya had been given a Guardian, when Círdan had no compunction of just letting all witness his fiery malcontent, Elrond did again; namely, not saying a word until he knew Círdan had calmed, for that night was one he had no desire to remember. Yes, Círdan's anger this night paled greatly in comparison to that other night, but still…even a glimpse of it was unsettling. He glanced at Glorfindel and saw the same thoughts shining in his eyes. Sure enough, Elrond caught the warning, minute shake of his golden head.

But as expected, Círdan did calm down and quickly at that. The ire in his eyes was visibly smothered, and yet, though he shared a rueful smile with both of them, it was still evident that he was disgruntled.

"I apologize for my ill words," Círdan continued, his voice far more calm and congenial, "particularly when I see they have brought you discomfort. You two and I have differing opinions on the Three, and mayhap I am unwise in my own. But doubt me not when I say that I would have cast Narya fully and with great pleasure far into the sea had Mithrandir rejected it." He gaze briefly hardened once more and he spoke in a tone that brooked no argument. "As you will recall, Gil-galad entrusted me with Narya to keep her safe and secret. And I swore upon my own life that I would. Sauron could not travel about the Waters and therein search without having to contest the wrath and might of Ulmo, something not even Morgoth could endure, let alone defeat. Trust me when I say that I would have broken no oath should I have done what Maglor did, for Narya would have been _very_ safe and secret while in the confines of Ulmo's Waters."

Elrond smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. "Be calm, Círdan, and let us speak of it no further. Following that line of logic, I believe you and cannot help but to agree."

Glorfindel nodded. "The deed is done, and I can conceive of no reason why one would say you were wrong to give Mithrandir Narya. For as you said; here she was idle, and mayhap now some good might come of her existence."

Pure relief then shone in Círdan's eyes and a heavy curtain seemed to be lifted. "Then I am content. Your words bring me great relief."

"I am still amazed at what Narya did to you," Elrond said, "for it makes little sense. The Three were crafted to impart healing; it should not have drained you so."

Círdan merely shrugged, nonchalant. "I never welcomed Narya, Elrond, or anything that came with her," he offered as an explanation, though it was clear he knew not the definite answer himself. "And if the healing you speak of was one of them, then I shunned it also. As I spoke, I refused to allow anything to interfere with my love for the Sea."

"Well then," Elrond concluded with a sigh, "it seems that the purpose of our visit has been met."

Círdan huffed in ill-humored amusement. "You reacted far better than Galdor did."

"No, he did not," Glorfindel corrected, and a smile as bright as the Sun was on his face, as he deliberately ignored the warning glare Elrond shot him. He did not even look in the Half-elf's direction, a great amount of glee and hilarity shining in his eyes. "If fact," he spoke deliberately, his brow furrowed in mock concentration, and all too evidently enjoying Elrond's displeasure, "if my memory serves me well, Elrond pretty much repeated every word that Galdor spoke to you after he first saw Mithrandir with Narya. Mithrandir seemed quite amused, but then again, Elrond spoke things far worse than Galdor, presumably since you were not able to hear it. Is that not correct, my friend?" he added, turning his bright, thoroughly undaunted smile on Elrond.

And Elrond glared at him with enough force that would make any other sensible Elf cringe or beg for mercy. But Glorfindel, curse his sometimes far too cheerful soul, remained positively merry in the face of such a dark glower. Knowing quite well that his Seneschal would remain blithely unaffected, Elrond turned his wary attention to Círdan, who had raised a quizzical eyebrow at him after hearing Glorfindel's words. And he looked at him in a way that, once again, reminded Elrond of being a child who had been caught, once more, in the midst of trouble. He just suppressed a sigh as Círdan cocked his head in question, obviously waiting for him to speak. Why oh why did Glorfindel have to have his particular sense of humor?

"Glorfindel is exaggerating," he grumbled. Círdan snorted in disbelief and he raised his hands in a manner of downright innocence. "All I did was question your reasoning –"

"In a thoroughly accusatory manner," Glorfindel finished, who was all but chuckling aloud.

Elrond's glare darkened. "I did not," he stressed slowly and clearly. "And I surely accused him of nothing."

"You expressly told Mithrandir and me that Círdan –"

"What I _said_ –"

They were both interrupted by the quiet sound of soft chuckling and turned to look at Círdan in surprise. The Shipwright had his head bowed, visibly working to suppress the laughter heard deep in his chest. But the quiet sounds vanished as quickly as they came, though a small smile still resided as he looked to Elrond and shook his head.

"I care not what you spoke, Elrond," he spoke. "How could I when I questioned my own clarity of mind over this?"

"But no longer," Glorfindel corrected in a quiet manner, his eyes grave. "You remember now how it was possible. Stress over it no further."

Círdan nodded at that, and Elrond saw a brief hint of relief in his gaze once more. "No, it is over; wholly over and done. Indeed, I knew you would come hither to demand answers, but I am truly grateful you did. For now, all feels finished."

"And now, my lord, you need rest," Elrond declared, looking meaningfully at the Shipwright. "One needs not to be a healer to see your fatigue. We have kept you this night long enough. And," he added as he stood from the rowing bench, "I will say to you what you always said to me: To bed with you!"

Círdan gave a small grin that shone more in his eyes than mouth and stood from his own seat. And Elrond knew his assessment had been correct when he caught the Shipwright almost unperceptively sway where he stood, the gentle, repetitive rocking of the ship having nothing to do with it. Círdan grasped Elrond's shoulder in a warm grip, and the Half-elf fleetingly wondered if this was, indeed, a way for the Elf to maintain a steady foot without anyone noticing. But Círdan sighed and squeezed the shoulder. "I pity your children should you ever have become as me. But it is late this night and you both need rest as well."

Such was the final word and, following Círdan's lead, the three took hold of their lanterns, which all had scarce little oil left to be burned, and disembarked the ship. They spoke no words until they had crossed the length of the smooth-wooded dock and onto the white shingles. Elrond could feel the coolness of the soft sand through the material of his footwear; the type of coolness that, upon standing on it long enough, would travel up the legs, seep into the bones and reside there to make them ache. The tide was once more beginning to fall. The warmth in the air had dropped to a chill that bit at the skin and the ferocity of the winds had increased as the storm north drew nearer. Elrond glanced up at the dark sky. The light of a single star seemed to break through the heavy clouds now and again, but the mass of the storm had accumulated greatly while hovering over the Ered Luin. Due to such, not even Elven eyesight was great enough to truly pierce the darkness and see where they were going with absolute clarity. And still in the distance, rolling thunder could be heard. At the pleasant sight, Elrond had no reservation for Círdan's appraisal; the storm would come early in the morn, as wet and majestic as was the wont of the storms nearby the sea and the cliffs. His Seneschal and he just might remain a little longer than planned, Elrond surmised, for this was not ideal weather to travel about in.

Círdan did not end his leisurely steps until their walk enabled the glow cast from their lanterns to illuminate the reeds and sparse underbrush and overly dried verdure. And within said field of reeds, an obscure pathway could be seen, comprised of the soft sand and shattered shells. And Círdan halted in his steps a short distance from it, waiting for Elrond and Glorfindel to come level with him before he gestured towards it with his lantern.

"There is the trail. Be sure of foot, for the sand will have grown slick. And be wary of the crabs." A wry, humored grin touched his mouth. "They enjoy jumping out to play with feet passing by."

"And _that_ would be wholly your doing," Glorfindel muttered, looking as a picture of complete innocence when Elrond turned a mock reproaching glare on him, though he could help not but to agree. Círdan's coexistence with sea-life was just as great, if not greater, as any Elf would be with nature in general. Elrond still recalled the experience of being helped by the old Mariner to come near a dolphin during his few years on the Isle of Balar.

Círdan had also turned the reproachful gaze on the golden-haired Elf. "Crabs are wonderful for things other than food." He spoke no more on that and seared a serious stare through both Elrond and Glorfindel. "Have you any further questions or words to speak ere we part this night?"

Elrond raised a skeptical eyebrow. "'We part'?" he echoed with a challenge in his voice. "And to where think you that you are going?"

Círdan placidly glanced over his shoulder to observe the long strand of white sand behind him and the seawater breaking ever so perfectly along the shoreline. He turned back and no thought could be read upon his face. "I will walk for a short while," he announced. He glanced upwards. "The storm will not come until after I return."

"Círdan," Elrond lightly admonished, absently moving away his hair as to not blow in his face. "You need to sleep. I know you possess the strength and endurance as any Elf does, but your limits have been reached during this day's journey."

But Círdan lightly shook his head, appearing all too unconcerned. "The sand is soft, the air clean, and the sea-music pure. To quell your worries and healer's instincts, such a walk will be good for my health." He flashed a small smile before, again, dividing a questioning look between the two. "So I inquire again; have you any further words to speak?"

Glorfindel shrugged. "Not so. Our questions were answered and our content spoken for you electing to give the Grey stranger the Ring of Ruby." Glorfindel then smiled in pure satisfaction. "And at least you were called 'penneth' as well. Now I feel not so humiliated."

Círdan raised an eyebrow and looked at him as one would regard a pouting child. "Would you rather I call you feeble?"

Glorfindel flashed him a dangerous smile, so thoroughly fake that it hurt to merely look at it. "But you and I both know well that such is far from true."

Círdan flashed a mocking stare towards him at that, as though questioning his intelligence, before, in silence, holding out his lantern for Glorfindel to take. And not a moment after Glorfindel did, Círdan had bowed his head towards both of them. "Then I bid you a good night," he spoke, "and will see you come dawn so that we may all bid our farewell to Ëarhín. But, for now, I must go."

Elrond and Glorfindel scarcely had the time to quickly reciprocate the respective bow before the Shipwright slowly but surely turned on his heel and began walking away. But before he went ten paces, Glorfindel raised his voice.

"Why the urgency, my friend?" he called jestingly, and the smile was heard in his voice. "Does our company offend you that greatly or have you again heard the summons of Ulmo? No, no, I apologize; the call of the Sea?"

Círdan briefly turned back around to give him a quick smile that seemed to be half-enigmatic and half-amused. And a light shone in his eye that neither could interpret. But he spoke nothing and Elrond and Glorfindel merely continued to observe him as he turned about and went on to walk. And the two looked on after him, standing there and watching the Shipwright become a gradually smaller figure in the distance, the wild wind making smooth the ever so slight imprints from his footfalls. Even amidst the blackness of the night and in the absence of the lantern light, his stature could still be clearly sighted. As Elrond had observed ere they had partaken of their meal, the Mariner's glow was much more discernible, stronger than it had been in a long time, for the fire of his fëa burned so brightly that it was an awe-inspiring sight to any mortal eye. His modest robes fluttered about his tall frame, and his hair, as white as his raiment, did the same in the lively winds. But Círdan did not look back and only continued walking, but to where, Elrond and Glorfindel had no notion.

And as Elrond watched him go, he felt a strange sensation within, an emotion he could not exactly label, but it made him appreciate the Shipwright all the more; that Elf had always been there, an integral part in all of Ennor, constant and simply _there_ throughout the changing of the World. Trying to imagine Middle-earth without Círdan was as trying to imagine Middle-earth without the Misty Mountains. It just was not possible. And in that moment, Elrond was glad for Círdan's commitment to be the last Elf to ever sail.

"He has no idea, does he?"

Elrond ripped his attention away from the person of his observation at the solemn words, and turned to Glorfindel. His Seneschal had lost any previous merriment, for as he looked after Círdan's rapidly disappearing figure, his eyes shone with nothing but concern and a gravity that Elrond could only presume Glorfindel had possessed during the bitter trials of the First Age.

But Elrond merely took note of the words. And as he looked back out to Círdan, he could only shake his head in a mixture of worry and surprise. "No," he answered. "It seems he does not."

Glorfindel lifted an inquiring eyebrow as he glanced at him. "Should we have told him?"

Elrond hesitated, catching his breath as he studied the Elf in the distance, before he released his breath and clenched his jaw in something of resignation. "No, my friend," he spoke. "By his testimony, it is clear that Círdan has no notion of what awaits him. It is no place of ours to even hint at it."

Glorfindel cocked his head to the side, his brow furrowed in thought and his eyes still not leaving the Mariner. "He seems more alive, though. Mayhap it will not be needed."

Elrond shook his head. "Aye, such is true; he _is_ more alive." A look of amazement and slight disbelief overcame his visage. "I never truly realized how much he had _changed_ over the past couple millennia. How much more tired and passive and aggrieved and…." The words trailed off as he shook his head again. "Never did I realize it until today. Comparing his will to partake in life, to _live_…comparing that to as he was in the First and Second Ages is as black and white. And never would I have fathomed that Narya would have such a large part in draining him so." A look of forlorn regret flashed over his eyes. "Indeed, had I known or even deduced such, I know not if I would have supported Gil-galad's – admittedly wise – decision to elect Círdan Guardian."

Glorfindel shrugged. "If Gil-galad himself had had a fleeting notion of what Narya would have done, I doubt he would have even thought of asking Círdan to guard the Ring, too, for Círdan was as a second father to him. But what was done is done and the past cannot be undone."

Elrond's eyes darkened. "But it does not change what is to come." He continued to look down the shoreline, though the Mariner had by then rounded the bend and disappeared from sight.

"But it may not happen, Elrond," Glorfindel spoke again in a reasonable voice. "Círdan spoke himself of how much more alive he feels since he removed the Ring. He is already healing."

"From the Ring, yes," Elrond corrected, and then he turned a questioning look on the Elda. "But from the toils and heartaches from the World, let alone the weariness of Time?" Glorfindel did not answer and Elrond bowed his head. "You have seen more than I, Glorfindel. Can you not see it in his eyes?"

The golden-haired Elf sighed in resignation. "You are right, as always. But still, it means not that I have to like the idea that Círdan being taken down to Ulmonan is the only solution."

And that was the crux of it. Apparently, according to the words spoken to him and Glorfindel, after Círdan had finally sailed into the Uttermost West, he was to be taken down to Ulmonan, down to the Halls of Ulmo to heal. Upon first hearing it, such a concept had passed beyond Elrond's understanding, not to mention his belief of it.

It had first been spoken of by Mithrandir, the very night after he had revealed the Red Ring about his finger. Glorfindel had been called and much deliberation had followed. But sooner than later, as the candles had burned low on their wicks and the fire had all but died in the hearth, making the solemn atmosphere appear even more so, their discussions had moved on to Círdan. It had not taken any amount of time for Mithrandir to give his all too brief account of what had happened, for he seemed to vie away from the subject and focus more on Círdan himself. And all too soon, Mithrandir had spoken words in his quiet, sage voice that neither of them had been prepared to receive. They had been clustered in his study, the door locked, and speaking in hushed tones that they might have instead been conspiring over some ill deed to commit.

"_What is this?" Elrond asked in a horrified whisper. "Of what you speak is unheard of in Elven lore."_

_Mithrandir gave a sympathetic smile, his hunched frame leaning on his gnarled staff. And Glorfindel stood alongside him in stony silence, his face utterly inexpressive after the words Mithrandir had spoken. "Not all things are granted to the sight of the Elves," he spoke softly in his rustic voice. "And not all wonders of the West are prone to be conjured by Elven imagination. And of what I speak is one of them."_

"_Ulmonan is said to be a myth," Glorfindel murmured, an incredulous light in his eyes. "On Tol Eressëa, only the oldest of Elves spoke of it, and even then the words passing their lips were but a whisper." He shook his head in desperate denial. "The Palace of Ulmo was nothing more than a whispered tale, a myth as Cuivienyarna is and legend of old among the Teleri, conjured from their own love of the Sea and respect for her King. It cannot be real."_

_Mithrandir shook his head again, a glimmer of sorrow and empathy shining in his eyes. "It is real, Glorfindel. For a hundred years the Teleri of the Lonely Isle were instructed by Ossë on the shore, who mayhap have let the existence of the home of his King slip during his teachings." He looked again in Elrond's eyes, whose complexion had paled in anxiety of what they were hearing. And the Istar spoke gravely, "Ulmonan is the deepest of places, found beneath the Land of Aman in the Outermost Seas that are set beyond the Outer Lands. There Ulmo dwells in his mighty halls of the Deep, a place of so many secret things that have remained always unknown and unconceivable."_

_But Elrond glanced about his study, as though hoping the answers he sought would be found there. "But why would Círdan be subjected to –"_

"_Not subjected to," Mithrandir meaningfully corrected. "Never before granted to an Elf, it shall be a gift to Círdan, and a blessing. I have looked upon the Shipwright and have seen his waning, for such is upon the very careworn lines of his face. He is old, and Time amid life in Ennor has not been gentle. And as his own words, he counts the hours ere he can sleep." He paused as the disquiet for the Mariner shining in both Elrond's and Glorfindel's eyes became downright fear. And they looked at Mithrandir, forlorn and waiting._

_And so the Grey wanderer spoke further: "Our timeworn friend is in great need of healing, the likes of which remain unfounded in Middle-earth. By his own strength he endures, and will not be conquered so long as he draws breath. With your own eyes you have witnessed the fire within him. But such has an outcome twofold, for upon the time when Círdan would sail, so great will the consumption have been that his fëa shall be quick to flee, should he will it so. And thus, at the happenstance, he will be given into the keeping of Ulmo and taken down to the Halls of the Deep, whereto he may be granted that healing."_

_Elrond stared at him in no short amount of amazement and disbelief. "How could you know all this? For never before have likes of it even been thought of."_

_Mithrandir smiled with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "A little bird," he said. "The sweet creature tells me all there is to know."_

Not that Elrond had believed for a heartbeat that a little bird had educated Mithrandir in any of this, but it might as well have been so. It had, on the positive side, been one of the first things that enabled Elrond to truly trust this Mithrandir in being the Guardian of the Red Ring. Ever since the aged being had strode into his Hidden Valley, haggard upon his staff and full of wisdom and intriguing personality, Elrond had been warily conscious that he was no ordinary Man; the wondrous aura he so thoroughly emanated guaranteed such, and his eyes had shone brighter and more piercing than any human's – or Elf's – could ever have. And never mind the fact that he had, with no compunction, spoke of how wayfarers referred to him as a Wizard. But when the elderly figure had begun to speak such knowledgeable words of things beyond that of Elven perception and imagination, Elrond had not known what to say, or what to truly think. All he did know with certainty was that no Man, no matter how great, would have been able to know and understand the things that this Mithrandir did. Deep down within him, Elrond had to believe that he was of some higher power, mayhap even a Maia. But he being a Maia made little to no sense at all, for there was no plausible explanation for any Maiar to show up so randomly in Middle-earth for no reason. Perchance he would solve the mystery later in time, when he had grown to know more who Mithrandir was as a person.

But no matter the awe and respect and growing affection Elrond had for the Istar, what Mithrandir had so quietly spoken of in his study could not be dismissed lightly. Searching his memory, he recalled what Glorfindel had been speaking and, torn between confusion and incredulity, responded, "Even should Ulmonan be the only solution, it passes beyond my understanding. Such is impossible!"

Glorfindel gave a hint of a smile that might have been teasing if not for the forlorn look in his eyes. "Never speak something is impossible," he impishly scolded, though any merriment swiftly faded as he looked back out to the stretch of shoreline and the dark water sweeping it. "Never would you condone wedding another Elf after you bonded with Celebrían, Elrond. To take a second spouse is beyond the nature of Elves, so much that we would declare it is beyond the realm of possibility. And yet, it so happened with Finwë."

Elrond sighed. "Such is different, Glorfindel. That decision was made not lightly and mandated the intervention of the Valar."

"Well," Glorfindel speculated a tad wearily, "concerning the scenario Mithrandir spoke of, it _has_ happened before."

Elrond looked at him. "And when was this?"

Glorfindel's face was drawn deep in thought. "What he spoke of reminded me of Míriel."

Elrond thought about that for a moment and sent his mind through the endless lore and history he had learnt and kept to memory, before his eyes dawned in understanding. Glorfindel must have caught the recognition, for he nodded at some unspoken agreement.

"Exactly," he went on. "She gave to Fëanor so much of her energy and spirit that his birth took too great a toll on her, and she was consumed in spirit and body. She had no yearning to remain with the Living afterwards, for she could find no healing in the Blessed Realm. So, when she lay down to sleep in the gardens of Lórien, she willed her spirit to depart and passed in silence to the Halls of Mandos."

He looked to Elrond and a wan, fatalistic smile touched his mouth. "It is possible; all Círdan would have to do is choose to _die,_ to will his spirit to depart from his body, if he is to so languish with weariness even after sailing. And instead of being taken by Mandos to his Halls, he would be given into the safekeeping of Ulmo." He shrugged, if a bit minutely. "It is rather simple upon inspection."

"Simple," Elrond huffed in sardonic amusement, "but hard." Glorfindel spoke nothing in response to that, though by the forlorn glimmer in his eyes, he clearly agreed. And so Elrond turned fully to him. "Think you that it will truly happen, then?"

Glorfindel hesitated, visibly confused as he contemplated the question. "Yes," he spoke slowly, still looking out towards the direction Círdan had disappeared in. "Yes," he repeated more firmly, if with a bit more resignation. "Círdan's tale this night is proof enough. Recall what Ulmo told him in the helmsman's quarters, when Círdan had asked what it was that he had just experienced; Ulmo spoke that it was but a taste of healing at his hand."

Elrond looked away. "And that Círdan passed the test."

Glorfindel nodded. "It may be a guess only on my part, but I would surmise that Ulmo was making sure that Círdan _could_ be healed by him, lest why would he go to Ulmonan, if there no healing is to be found? Thus, Ulmo had to test him, and he apparently passed that test. That _must_ signify that it will indeed happen."

Elrond's eye was caught by a fiddler crab, red as they came, poking its way through the reeds, and he watched in absent interest as it slowly worked to maneuver its shell of a body through them. "I fail to understand, though," he spoke, tearing his attention away from the creature. "It is to the Halls of Mandos that the spirits of the slain or those that have faded go. In Manwë's name, they are so named the 'Houses of the Dead'! How could Círdan heal when residing outside of Mandos?"

Glorfindel gave an uncertain shrug. "The source of healing is not in the Halls of Mandos themselves," he began slowly, selecting his words with upmost caution as if hesitant of them himself. "The Halls…they are quiet." His brow was lightly furrowed and Glorfindel had cast out his gaze to the dark skyline, as though hoping that the answers he sought would there be found. "Alas, my memory of that time is muddled, as though peering through a glass smeared too greatly. But of all things, I remember mostly the silence, and of how there was little mingling or communing with others.

"I recall a time of Waiting, though I know not how long or little it lasted. In the Halls, there is no Time. But there, I remember being comforted and strengthened, corrected in my wrongs and instructed in any ignorance." Glorfindel quickly shook his head in small shakes, as though snapping himself out of his solemn daze. "Remember you when Círdan described the healing, of how 'no memory remained on the forefront'?" Elrond nodded and Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. "It brought to me memory of my own time spent in the Houses of the Dead, for I could remember nothing of my first life until after I was reborn.

"You see, Elrond," he went on. "It is not dwelling within the Halls of Mandos themselves that heal; it is what the Halls represent: resting in a place untainted, healing without the intrusion of evil or Darkness. It means receiving that _comfort_, that strength, the renewal of spirit without fear of anything that was or is or is to come. Such is what the Halls of Mandos provide to the spirits of the slain. Such is what the Blessed Realm provides to those of the Living. And, evidently, such is what Ulmonan will provide to Círdan."

Elrond huffed again, this time in genuine amusement. "I cannot count the times Círdan has impressed on me the fact that the Sea is the one place never to be touched by Evil, for the Lands on both shores have borne the scars of Morgoth."

Glorfindel chuckled. "He has said the same to me."

Elrond allowed a rueful, little smile. "I know, for Círdan, I should be glad. But it remains prominent in my mind that, if this should pass, we never would be able to see him."

Glorfindel gave him a sympathetic, almost pitiful look, but the soft smile was present both on his face and in his eyes. "You never would see him should he reside in Mandos, either, my friend," he informed. "As I spoke, it is very quiet there. It is the doom of Mandos that only those who opt to be reborn could commune with those of the Living, even those that had once been dear to them. No words can pass through the veil from the Living to the Dead. And to make matters worse, the fëa is obdurate in its nakedness; to that fact, Círdan is no exception. And Círdan especially would remain long in the bondage of his memory and old commitments."

Elrond lightly pursed his lips, regarding Glorfindel with no lack of suspicion. He sometimes wondered if his Seneschal simply found pleasure in speaking in riddles instead of cutting straight to the point. Of course, Elrond had also heard many a Sinda, including Círdan, say the same thing of Noldor in general. "So," he concluded, managing to draw out the single word considerably, "it can be said that _if_ Círdan wills his spirit to depart his body, no matter where he would then go to heal, he will remain there for a long time."

Glorfindel nodded. "Essentially, yes. A long life he has lived, after all."

"So the 'where' surely matters not," Elrond murmured, speaking his thoughts aloud. "All our words remain as speculation, for it solely depends on whether Círdan will find healing in Aman, which, by all rights, he _should_." He looked to Glorfindel, his gaze intense – almost desperate. "You spoke so yourself; in Aman, all weariness can find rest. How could Círdan not receive it?"

Glorfindel shrugged again, shifting on his feet before they became buried in the compressed sand. "Míriel did not. It happened once and it could happen again. But," he added before Elrond could speak, his brow drawn in a mixture of deep thought and wonder, "I think we need to recall what Círdan spoke about this night, for I just now realized something…something important, I believe."

Elrond raised an eyebrow in wry amusement. "Which part, exactly? Of all he spoke tonight, there was plenty."

If Glorfindel heard the hints of mocking sarcasm in his lord's voice, he gave no indication. Really, he gave no indication at all that he heard the words. There was an air of intense concentration about him. And rather swiftly, that full intensity was centered upon Elrond. "Humor me, my friend, and answer me this: Where did Círdan say his heart was?"

Elrond regarded him in no amount of confusion and curiosity, fully ignoring the wisps of hair that continued to blow in his face. "With the Sea," he answered warily, uncertain as to his friend's train of thought.

Glorfindel absently nodded. "And how long would you presume his heart has been fully thus?"

Elrond blinked and looked away, silent. "How could I answer that, Glorfindel?" he spoke to the waves. "How could anyone? How could you? Based on his words this night, I know not surely if Círdan even knows."

Glorfindel nodded again. "Aye, I believe so, also; even the deepest of things in us can remain hidden. You know Círdan better than I. How long would _you_ presume it has been so?"

Elrond shrugged helplessly. "Certainly before mine and your births. You heard what Círdan spoke; even before Thingol returned from his long absence in the wilderness, his heart had been divided between Land and Sea. Ulmo had spoken to him and played for him his music, and thereafter on the shores Círdan has always resided. How much longer after that believe _you_ it would have taken for Círdan to fall fully in love with the Waters?" Elrond briefly closed his eyes as he pressed his fingers against his temples. "What has this to do with anything?"

Glorfindel hesitated for a heartbeat before his eyes were overcome by firm resolve. And he plowed ahead. "It is only a theory, but mayhap that is why Círdan will not heal in Valinor, through solely standing and living amongst the peace as other Elves do. Aman is a large stretch of land, but Círdan is in love with the Sea." He glanced down at the white sand. "Mayhap land will not heal him. Mayhap he will reject it in fear of it interfering with his bond of love with the Waters, as he did Narya. Ulmonan is located directly beneath the Undying Lands, and the absence of evil and the presence of the Valar exist in both places."

Elrond slowly nodded as he spoke, unable to find himself to do anything but agree. "No other Elf in existence has this long gone on without experiencing the bliss and rest of the West. With that, what Elf can say what is meant for Círdan?"

Glorfindel heaved a deep breath. "Yet, as you, it remains not fully clear to me. Truly, if there is no healing for him in the Blessed Land, it at least makes sense he would force his spirit to flee. But why is the only solution Ulmonan when the same could be accomplished as it would be in Mandos?"

Elrond gave an affectionate smile. He needed not to think about how to answer that. "Remember you what Círdan said Ulmo spoke, how his 'reward' will exceed the greatest and only desire of his heart?" Glorfindel nodded. "_The Sea_, Glorfindel," he emphasized. "To dwell amid the Sea. Being taken down to Ulmonan would be not only a place of rest, as Mandos would be; it will be a gift."

Glorfindel lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "And is such his greatest desire, to live within the Halls of Ulmo?"

Elrond gave a halfhearted gesture with his hand. "Mayhap not live with Ulmo himself, for such probably remains beyond even his imagination, impossible as it sounds. But think of what Círdan described, about Ulmo _being_ the Sea. Recall the dreams he described and the wonder shining in his eyes every time he speaks of the Waters. And ask yourself; can you really see him rejecting such an offer?"

Several heartbeats of silence followed, but in the end, Glorfindel had to smile, contrite and wan as the grin was. "No," he came to say, the smile still in place. "I cannot. Círdan's descriptions of Ulmo removing the tangles from his hair reminded me of a mother combing that of her child's. Alas, I would be a fool to deny that Círdan's soul is entwined with the Sea, so much so that he is able to enforce his influence on it. A blind fool."

Elrond shook his head, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Círdan claims to have no power over the waters," he spoke, "but he does. With my own eyes, I have seen him quell a tumult with a shout, make swift the passage of a rampant waterway by way of his will."

Glorfindel looked at him, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Believe you that he would have truly thrown Narya into the sea?"

Elrond nodded with no hesitation. "I do," he spoke firmly, "for I believe there was not one day Círdan was glad to have borne Narya." He turned a meaningful look on his Seneschal. "You were there, Glorfindel, upon his receiving of her. You know how reluctant he was. Valar, you _saw_ how he reacted."

Glorfindel visibly grimaced at the memory. "That is a night I go _not_ to remember," he muttered. "Anyway, I doubt Círdan would have done as he claimed he would. I believe he would have kept Narya at least a while longer, to mayhap consult with the other Guardians and the Wise who know of the Three, to receive counsel. Círdan would have been able to handle the power of Narya the Great for at least that much longer."

Elrond snorted, torn between amusement and exasperation. "Círdan would be capable of wielding the One Ring and supplanting Sauron alone, if he put his mind to it. It would be not beyond him to do as he believed best. And I, in all honesty, cannot deny that it might have been best, under the circumstances."

"Still, it is unlike Círdan to be so bold."

Elrond sighed and grabbed hold of Glorfindel's shoulder, stirring him towards the direction of the vague pathway. "You spoke yourself; you know him not as well as I. And we could debate over this before Círdan himself and never receive an answer. Let us finally rest, for we must rise early."

Glorfindel began to walk with him at a leisurely pace, finding himself having to tread with care as to not step on the few precious crabs about. "We could ask Galdor."

"He has panicked enough over this."

"Or Celeborn; he knows Círdan better than you."

"And so much so that he would not care over the pure futility of it."

"We could ask –"

"Glorfindel, let us just retire in peace."

O = O = O

Along the shore Círdan walked as he had done a thousand times before. His steps were leisurely, his white robes emitting only the smallest of sounds as they fluttered in the mixture of wind and ocean mist. His hair did the same, something he took no notice of. He walked not towards the upper shore, but rather along the hard, wetly compressed sand along the tide. And the water repetitively swept across the sand and over his feet, chilling and numbing his skin, but he cared not. He walked on, on and on down the shore, no destination in mind and no grave purpose to his stride. His grey eyes, keen as ever, were vacant as he listened to the soft melodies of the sea-music; a song so pure in its tune and resounding with the reverberation of the Great Music. And he heard upon it voices and words exotic to his ears, and in him, solace and warmth entered as he absorbed the welcoming sensations.

The sea was alive this night. But even more so, _he_ felt alive this night. It was finished. It was done. And there was nothing left for the worries of his mind to be focused on. He had done his best to explain to Elrond and Glorfindel everything he could, to provide them the answers they had sought. He could only hope that he had achieved so in the end, for as he had given his solemn word to the Istari and to Ulmo, he had kept his silence on the emissaries' true origin and purpose. Of course, it had resulted in him saying very little on why he so trusted Mithrandir with Narya, let alone why he believed the Grey Wizard should truly be its Guardian. And, sure enough, many a time this night, he had seen the hints of frustration upon both his friends' faces. But in the end, fortunately, it had been enough, and their wonder and need for answers had been sated. For now, that was.

He had also spoken nothing of Ossë and, indeed, had made mention of him only once. The story of the Master of the Seas, that Círdan had been so privileged to learn, was no one else's concern, least of all two Elves that had never spoken with the Maia. But no interest had been shown in him, anyway, for which Círdan was grateful.

But of all things to be thankful for, the most appreciative for Círdan was his mind being truly his own this night, truly and wholly clear. To a degree, he was still amazed that he had not remembered what Curunír had insisted so fervently that he knew. And, looking back, all his fear and worry over it seemed foolish beyond reproach. He would have to enlighten Ëarhín of that small detail about Ulmo come morn, or mayhap another day. As well as Galdor. But all in all, things had returned to solid ground, as they should be in an ever changing world of chaos.

And so on Círdan walked, willing his mind to be lost among the beating rhythm of the waves, and his soul among the flawless tunes of the water. And in little to no time, as on many occasions before, the bond of love he had long developed with the Sea hardened as steel, swiftly enabling his heart to beat as one with the great harmony of the Waters that he could feel pulse through his very veins. And as seldom before, and only on his own, he uplifted his voice in song once more, the words soft and quiet, yet with the enchantment that every Elven voice carried.

"Of infinite walk through timeless passage,  
>In life lived blent among counting lore,<br>Of sea-longing unfey unto my heart thirled,  
>Alas, to dwell I must on sea and shore.<br>Lo! lo! Unto you of eld I harken!  
>King of the Seas, Dweller of the Deep,<br>Veins of the World, Friend of the Quendi!  
>Unto whom I obey I beseech to hear my plea:<p>

Amidst endless depths and life sea-faring,  
>Over starlit mere and white sand soft,<br>Against water-wrought ghyll and shell clad shore,  
>Under star indwelt dome and crane aloft,<br>With water-bird sweet and seagull's cry,  
>Amongst dying Sun and color hued sky,<br>Across glassy surf and rolling swell,  
>Amidst the Sea let me dwell."<p>

And as the final words of his song passed his lips, their melody breaking as they went out among the swells, Círdan recalled against his will the words Ulmo had so adamantly spoken to him: _For all times you stood amidst my seas I felt your sorrow. And from all streams and rivers are words carried to me, and thereby do I taste the cry of your song_.

In the name of all things sacred, how his soul ached to lay sight on him once more! Or to at least catch the sound of his terribly deep voice. He knew not what was more painful to bear; that residual ache Ulmo always left within him, or the knowledge that he will never know when or if he might ever see the Vala again. He knew well for most of his life that the King of the Seas came and went, as mysterious and as vastly unknowable as the Sea itself. He would come when he came, and he would remain away as long as he willed. And besides, it seemed Ulmo had heard always his plea, as he had now heard it again. It would be enough and he would endure. He would stay upon the sea and shore, everlasting, as his love for the Waters were, in how long he would.

"I remain," he murmured, the sound of the words lost on the wild wind. His mind wandered within the mysteries of the Song until he lost all awareness of the reality about him. "Lords of the West, I remain. Eru above, as you called me from my sleep at Dawn, so to the slumber I shall return at Dusk. My Lord Ulmo, hear me! For how long will you keep me thus?"

As expected, only silence and the soft, crystalline sound of the sea-music answered him, and he felt his heart swell with affection for it all over again. The pearl, the pearl…how the most precious of things could be both a blessing and a curse. He would hold it this night while upon his balcony and allow it to quell his distress, even though it meant the return of that deep ache come dawn. But he would remain. Middle-earth approached the throws of turmoil, and his Sight of her future went on unending. Though through it all, victory and defeat alike, he would remain. Ships needed to be crafted and his Grey Havens needed to be governed. And his people…his beloved people he had never deserved would never receive any abandonment on his part. But upon the sea and shore, he would remain.

**The End**

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><p><strong>AN:** And finally, it is finished. I can't even describe the deep breath I have now taken. As always, reviews will be greatly cherished and all words of any kind. Please, I ask you, take just a little bit of time to submit a small review, to permit me to know if all the effort and time I put into this story was worth it. But above all, thank you ever so much for reading this piece and giving me great encouragement. I hope you at least found some enjoyment out of it and that Círdan has become at least a tad more interesting for you. I know he certainly has for me. But please review! And thank you for reading. Happy trails.

**To come:** The next story that I am planning to publish is a companion piece to this one, to be so titled "Three Rings for the Elven Kings". I know the title is a bit tacky and might be changed later if a little inspiration comes, but keep an eye out for the story if you're interested. In it we get to read about just what exactly Elrond and Glorfindel cringe to remember; the night in the study when Círdan had been given Narya to guard by Gil-galad. And as remembered, it wasn't exactly easy to persuade Círdan to take it. This is the next gap-filler to be told.

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><p>"This text is remarkable in that on the one hand nothing is said of the history and importance of Círdan as it appears elsewhere…" ~ Christopher Tolkien<p>

**Sources:** Nigh on everything is with canon, but these sources list those facts that people may question. Anything listed with "(BV)" in it indicates that book-verse (minor in most cases) was used directly from the source.

**[1] **Every minute detail involving the Istari – their duty, restrictions, and powers (BV); "Unfinished Tales", _II The Istari_**/**HoME _Last Writings – The Five Wizards_ XII.384-5  
><strong>[2] <strong>Círdan was the only one to ever know of the Istari's origin and purpose; "Unfinished Tales", _II The Istari  
><em>**[3] **Sacking of the Shipwrights and that Círdan is one of the few, if not the only ancient friend of Ulmo remaining; "Unfinished Tales", _Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin_ pg. 37 (small theory involved)  
><strong>[4] <strong>Ulmo's corporeal description and of his girdle of mighty pearls (BV); HoME _The Fall of Gondolin_ II.156-157  
><strong>[5] <strong>Location of Ulmonan; HoME _Foreword_ I.[xxii] & II.87  
><strong>[6] <strong>Ulmo has the power to "transform" time, turning years of travel into days; HoME _The Fall of Gondolin_ II.156  
><strong>[7] <strong>Ossë's tale of turning to darkness and back (BV); "Silmarillion" _Valaquenta_ – _Of_ _the_ _Maiar_ pg. 38  
><strong>[8] <strong>Círdan's real name, Nówë; HoME _Last Writings – Círdan_ XII.385 & note #30 (there is some speculation as to whether the letter "o" has an accent over it or not, but I decided that it does)  
><strong>[9] <strong>Círdan's physical description (BV); RotK, "The Grey Havens"  
><strong>[10] <strong>Círdan's silver hair; HoME _Quendi and Eldar_ XI.384  
><strong>[11] <strong>Círdan will dwell in Middle-earth until the last ship sails; RotK, "Appendix A", _The Númenórean Kings_ (iii)  
><strong>[12] <strong>Círdan's tale of Ulmo forbidding him passage to Aman and his greatness akin to Thingol (BV); HoME _Last Writings – Círdan_ XII.385-386  
><strong>[13] <strong>Save when instructed by Ainur, Círdan has absolute command in granting – and denying – permission to Elves who wish to sail to the Uttermost West; _The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien_ No. 246  
><strong>[14] <strong>Círdan foreseeing in a vision the flight of Vingilot (BV); HoME _Last Writings – Círdan_ XII.386  
><strong>[15] <strong>Of Círdan's pearls and Nimphelos (BV); "Silmarillion", _Of the Sindar_, pg. 92  
><strong>[16] <strong>That Círdan would be capable of wielding the One Ring and supplanting Sauron (BV); _The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien _No. 246  
><strong>[17]<strong> Círdan's foresight is the greatest of all Elves, second to none but the Ainur. "He is said [source] to have seen further and deeper into the future than anyone else/Círdan received a foresight touching all matters of importance, beyond the measure of all other Elves upon Middle-earth." (BV); HoME _Last_ _Writings_ – _Círdan_ XII.385-6, note 31  
><strong>[18] <strong>Círdan's tale of his fore-knowledge of Nargothrond's fall, of his message and Túrin's scorn of Círdan (BV); "Unfinished Tales", _NARN IN HÎN HÚRIN_ pg.168**/**"The Children of Húrin" Ch. XI: _The Fall of Nargothrond_ pg. 171-176  
><strong>[19] <strong>Círdan is the kinsman (blood relative) of Elwë; HoME _Last Writings – Círdan_ XII.387**/**HoME _Quendi and Eldar_ XI.384 & note 15  
><strong>[20] <strong>Círdan's spirit is consuming him; HoME _Laws and Customs Among the Eldar_ X.212.219 (this passage does not directly state that Círdan's body is a victim to the consumption of the fëa, but after reading it, it becomes an incontestable fact.)  
><strong>[21]<strong> Of Saruman's deeply held scorn for Radagast; FotR, "The Council of Elrond"  
><strong>[22]<strong> The Teleri lived on the Falas for 100 years and were taught by Ossë on his rock till Ulmo came for them at the second crossing; HoME _The Lhammas_ V.187  
><strong>[23]<strong> Teleri being in many ways distinct from all other Elves; HoME _Last Writings – Círdan_ XII.385-6**/**HoME _The_ _Later_ _Quenta_ _Silmarillion_ XI.189, note 57**/**HoME _Quendi and Eldar_ XI.380**/**HoME _The Later Quenta Silmarillion_ _(I)_ X.163  
><strong>[24]<strong> Powers of the Elven Rings and their making (BV); _The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien_, No. 144 & 181**/**RotK, "Appendix B", _The Tale of Years  
><em>**[25] **In the beginning at Cuiviénen, the Elder Children of Eru were stronger and greater than they have since become (BV); "Silmarillion", _Of the Coming of the Elves_, pg. 49  
><strong>[26]<strong> Cuivienyarna (that Glorfindel mentioned in the flashback); HoME _Quendi and Eldar_ XI.420-424: Cuivienyarna is a surviving Elvish fairytale or child's tale, mingling with counting lore, entailing a romanticized version of the Awakening of the Quendi at Cuiviénen, and the legend's "original" language was Quenya. Today, it is commonly mistaken by many people, well-Tolkien versed or not, as the actual way that Elves first Awoke, which is false. Tolkien declared that it was only a mere fairytale told to Elven children and nothing more.  
><strong>[27]<strong> Círdan was one of the original Elves who awoke at Cuiviénen; (Certain canonical information has led me to conclude this; several sources had to be connected. Should you wish to know my reasoning, let me know and I'll inform you. It's pretty hard evidence to dismiss.)

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><p><strong>Círdan and the Istari:<strong> No where in Tolkien's lore does it explicitely state that Círdan voyaged the Belegaer to retrieve the Istari and provide them passage to Middle-earth, but Tolkien's lore also never specifies that he didn't. All JRRT gives us concerning the Istari's arrival in Middle-earth with the Shipwright in the scene is that the Lord of the Havens "welcomed" them to Middle-earth, which Círdan certainly did do in this story. By my studies there was nothing indefinite that described how the Istari arrived in Mithlond, to which I could only resort to Círdan's explanation of when he spoke to Ulmo, that they could have sailed the Straight Path by a ship from Alqualondë, which seems the only other plausible way. If that theory is what you would rather, then by all means...but this story, remember, was not solely about the Istari, but of the learning of Círdan's character in every way possible. All these conversations would have taken place, no matter which theory I chose, either on the beach or on the ship. I chose the more interesting, I think. :) Therefore, we could conclude that, though the very concept of this story could push the limits of plausibility, it could not indefinitely fall under the category of AU. Unless I stated otherwise, everything, at least, falls in accordance with canon. Also, the number of which the Istari arrived was also a decision I had to make solely on my own; when Tolkien spoke of the Istari's arrival in at least four different books (off the top of my head), there had been much debate over who arrived first, last, and in what order. Many of the debates: Saruman arrived first, the Blue Wizards arrived last, the Blue Wizards arrived first, Gandalf arrived last, Radagast arrived with Gandalf, Gandalf arrived first, etc. See why I had to make that decision on my own? But I do believe inconclusively that Saruman arrived first.

**Pearls, Ulmonan, and Shackles:** The concept of Círdan being gifted with a pearl from Ulmo's girdle of "mighty pearls" was of my own invention. Nothing in Tolkien's works goes either with or against the notion, so in creating the idea I was homefree. If you paid attention, you know of the concepts behind it, and said concepts I chose for it based on the conclusions I made when reading the facts about the amazing relationship between Vala and Elf. So therefore, the gifting of the pearl to the Shipwright still falls safely in with what Tolkien wrote, which brings me to my next point:

Ulmonan. As stated, Ulmonan (or the Palace of Ulmo) is an actual canonical place, located directly beneath Aman in the Outer Seas, as listed in the Sources above. But the entire concept of Círdan being "taken down" to Ulmonan, as described in this chapter by Elrond and Glorfindel, is totally and completely of my invention. I claim that here and now before someone complains. Tolkien never spoke anything about Círdan's end fate, save that he was the very last Elf to ever sail, though when that is we will never know. But Tolkien did state incontrovertibly that Círdan's heart was with the Sea, in more ways than one, and Tolkien also made it clear that Círdan never heard the blow of Ulmo's horn in his heart, which instigates the "sea-longing" (a.k.a. the calling home to the Undying Lands, such as with Legolas). I won't deign to repeat anything I already wrote in this story, for I do believe (I hope) that I managed to convey everything that Tolkien wrote concerning the Shipwright's bond with the Sea (and everything else he wrote about Círdan) in a well-enough and understandable manner. Though the concept of Círdan being taken down to Ulmonan akin to how an Elf would be taken to the Halls of Mandos was never mentioned or signified, the facts of it and by how it would happen, not to mention the possibility of it, does succeed in falling well in line with canon, based on all my studies. So no worries: there is no evidence that would point to the concept being AU, aside from the fact that it has never before happened. Why Elrond and Glorfindel, of all people, would be privy to such personal information about the Shipwright is beyond my knowledge. I apologize if it doesn't make much sense why they were told at all, but I could think of no other way to convey the concept of Ulmonan without it being via A/N or sounding stupid, out of place or simply tacky. It was the best I could come up with, all things considered.

And now the shackles: I refer to the "shackles" described in Ch. 9 that were about Ossë's wrists. That idea was also purely of my invention. By my studies, Tolkien spoke nothing of what happened after Ossë returned to the "good side". Very little can be found on Ossë compared to other characters, but the inclusion of his side of the story was a way for me to tackle another gap-filler I found interesting. I can only hope that it worked out and went well enough with the rest of his story, as well as bring out the type of character Ulmo is.

**Dream v. Reality:** And finally, we come down to what all this actually was, a dream or not a dream. As you read, there was obviously no dream taking place and the voyage was made canonically possible by Source #6 listed above. Ulmo played a major part in this story and this was a great opportunity to include nigh on everything I could find on him, including his "timing". However, I know some people prefer the contrary, so if you would rather that everything Círdan had witnessed and conversed with other people be a dream, go ahead. Canonically, it is possible both ways since Irmo (Vala of Dreams) was involved, but I opted it not to be a dream because...well, it just wouldn't have been that much impressive to me. Not to mention that it would have personally felt like cheating. Can't fit canonically, just make it a dream! Círdan and Ulmo (and Gandalf, of course) play the most major rolls in the story, and including just how great the power of Irmo is would have detracted from that purpose. But still, it works canonically both ways, so you may change it to dream mode if you're dissatified.


End file.
